


For Thou Art A True Love Of Mine

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape, Beefy Bucky, British Bucky Barnes, Brock Rumlow Is A Douche, Childbirth, Colonization negatively affecting native culture, Community - Freeform, Death of Animals, Domestic Violence, F/M, Historical AU, Intersex Natasha Romanoff, Intersex Steve Rogers, Irish Steve Rogers, M/M, Maori characters, Not between Bucky and Steve, Oblivious Bucky, Peggy is a badass cop, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pregnancy, So is Alexander Pierce, Steve won't take his shit, Stubborn Steve, Threat of Sexual Violence, Victorian attitudes toward intersex people, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Women's Rights, graphic depictions of Victorian medical practices, grumpy bucky, intersex-phobia, it takes a village, steve growing past these things to become confident in herself, suffragette, the history of intersex individuals showcased as oddities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: The Howling Commandos decide notorious grump, Bucky Barnes, needs a wife and advertise in Ireland for a woman of good standing and a gentle nature to civilize their errant friend.  They are not expecting spitfire, Stevie Rogers, to storm into their friend's life and turn it upside down and inside out.  Will they last the month?  Or are they bound for an annulment?Set during the colonization of mid-nineteenth century New Zealand, this story follows an ex-con and a woman hiding from the authorities struggling to get along, make a living, and out-maneuver Alexander Pierce to keep from losing their sheep farm.





	1. The Contract

**Author's Note:**

> This story deals with some touchy subjects. 
> 
> 1.) The Victorian period (most periods in fact) was not kind to Intersex individuals. Any deformity of the body was seen as a manifestation of sin on the human race, so they were often institutionalized or put on display. This story goes into some of that. I do not condone this behavior. Many of the core characters in this story don't condone this behavior.
> 
> 2.) The colonization of New Zealand caused massive infighting among the various Maori clans. This included the introduction of guns, which were used to decimate entire clans. There was also the black market sale of spiritual Maori artifacts, especially the Mokomokai, heads of warriors killed in battle.
> 
> 3.) Gender identity is another major point of this piece, more specifically, Stevie struggling to redefine herself and her ideas of gender in a society where male and female are the only option. And having any sort of a penis in past societies meant maleness. There are also discussions of gender expectations. "It's a woman's job to keep the house, a man's job to provide" etc. My research has led me to believe the Maori have a less rigid structure in that men would help out around the house and with children when necessary.
> 
> 4.) This is where I tell you that I have social anxiety disorder and putting my writing out there is a difficult and vulnerable thing for me, and lately, I have been plagued by critical comments that have made me wary of posting this piece for public consumption. So I'm not looking for critiques, constructive or otherwise. Unless I've done something marvelously stupid in my depiction of the Intersex or Maori communities, please keep things positive. I won't respond to negative comments, but I also don't want to feed into any negative stereotypes about vulnerable minorities, so do point out if I've done something offensive.

The crash of a solid body contacting with and breaking a table could be heard outside the tavern. Howls of rage followed. Then came the thud of fists against flesh, and men scattered in all directions to escape the wrath of the brawlers inside. One was dark and wild of hair with broad shoulders and a dimpled chin, a beast of a man with the attitude of a bear whose paw was stuck clean through by a thorn. The other was lean and wolfish.

With one twist of his impressive body, the bear slung the wolf across the tavern again, this time sending him over the bar with a crash of broken glasses and bottles. The hapless aproner squealed in irritation and cracked the wolf over the head with a bottle of his finest stout, shouting for them to take it outside.

They did not take it outside. Rather, the wolf lunged at the bear, ducking low at the last moment in order to take the bear's legs from beneath him. Both tumbled to the floor in a flurry of limbs and hair where the wolf came out on top. He rammed the bear's head into the floorboards. Once. Twice. A third time before the bear bucked hard enough to unseat his opponent and went on the offensive.

Dum Dum, meanwhile, finished the last dregs of beer in his tankard, looked to his companions, a British farmer, an African fleeing enslavement in America, and a Japanese whaler, and rose to interject himself between the fighters before they all got banned from the tavern for life. He received an elbow to the face for his efforts but managed to haul a kicking and snarling Bucky Barnes from the dog pile.

“You fucker!” Bucky spat. “One of these days, they'll be mopping your teeth off the floor.”

“Put your bear on his leash, Dum Dum,” Brock said while wiping dribbles of blood from his chin. “That one shouldn't be allowed out in public until he learns proper manners.”

“You'll excuse us, Your Holiness,” Jim Morita said, his words dainty as he dropped into a curtsey. His fingertips held an imagined skirt pinched between them. “We be men of the sea and the land. Our mothers ain't given us proper manners. We grew up suckling from the bosom of the ocean, good sir.”

The Howling Commandos broke into guffaws.

Their escape didn't happen fast enough. Bobbies turned up to evict everyone before the fight could spill into the muddy lanes outside the tavern. Chester Phillips, the newly minted commissioner of the Mackenzie District, had been quick to build up a police force throughout the whole of the district to control civil unrest. The bobbies were made up of rough men who likely had little regard for the law before being given badges and told to act upon his orders.

Spending a night in the local jail was the least the Howling Commandos would do in the name of Bucky Barnes, so while they grumbled and spent the night poking fun at him, none considered abandoning him in his hour of need. Not even when Pierce came by that morning wearing his Disappointed Face, the one he reserved for people who didn't heave to when he cried “pull” to bail out Mr. Rumlow. The two were in deep cahoots.

“One would think, Mr. Barnes, that as a man with something to lose, you would tread more carefully in polite society.” Pierce tugged his waistcoat into proper alignment and smoothed back a tendril of hair.

“Me?” Bucky scoffed. “I ain't got nothing I'm gonna lose to you.”

“How much do you owe on your bank loan, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky stiffened.

“Here now,” Dum Dum interrupted. “Ain't no call for threatening a man's livelihood, Mr. Pierce. Nothing happened last not 'cept a couple of lug-heads having a disagreement.”

“The way Mr. Rumlow tells it, Mr. Barnes attacked him for no just cause.”

“Brock can--” The remainder of Bucky's comment was muffled behind Gabe's hand.

“Now, we saw it a different away, Your Grace,” Jim added. “'Cause it looked to us like Mr. Rumlow was casting excursions-- Is that the word?” He glanced to Gabe for confirmation.

Gabe corrected, “Aspersions.”

“Looked to us like he was making aspersions about what Bucky here gets up to with his sheep. She ain't called Maggie 'cause o' her tender nature, you know.”

Pierce's nose wrinkled when a fellow inmate hiked down his trousers to take a shit in a nearby bucket. He whipped out a handkerchief with which to cover his nose and mouth. “Mr. Rumlow is an upstanding member of this community, and if I hear of one more attack, I will be forced to take actions that would result in your ruination, Mr. Barnes. Heed my warning.”

Pierce made haste from lock-up.

Gabe removed his hand from Bucky's mouth, who huffed and offered them all a look of fond amusement. One that ended in a cough and him complaining, “Christ, Jacques. What'd you eat last night, you nasty fucker? My eyes are watering from that stench coming out of you.”

No one understood a single word that came out of Jacques' mouth. He was French and fresh off the boat. For all anyone knew he was having a go at their mothers in his native tongue, not that a single one of them had a mother worth more than a single damn.

They were released from lock-up later that evening when Gilmore Hodge, chief of the unboiled lobsters, pronounced them sober enough to return to civilized society. Dum Dum wanted to laugh in his face. There wasn't nothing civilized about the Mackenzie District outside of Pierce's verdant piece of land, land that just so happened to border the property of one James Buchanan Barnes.

Rather than returning to the tavern—Dum Dum's pockets were empty until next payday at the dock where he worked loading and unloading cargo—they all piled into Bucky's wagon. A team of the meanest horses in existence—Chomper, known for her penchant for biting, and Stomper, named after the frequency with which he clipped their toes when leading him from the barn—awaited them in the livery. They harnessed up and headed back to Bucky's property.

The driveway was demarcated by a pair of posts over which a sign hung. The sign read “Nowhere.” Bucky had been drunk after signing the bank loan and receiving the deed and had thought the name terribly funny at the time. Probably regretted it now. As they pulled up to the cluster of buildings, a dog came tearing from inside the barn yapping with excitement.

Bucky put on the brake and jumped down, crouching and opening his arms so Winter could throw herself into them. She was a black and white border collie who had come over from Australia with him as a pup, and sometimes Dum Dum figured she was the only reason Barnes was still sane.

They all tromped inside, everyone except Bucky and Dum Dum. Bucky made his way toward the barn, fingers digging into the muscle of his left arm. When he flexed the fingers of his bad arm, he cringed, so Dum Dum caught up with him and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Gonna be shearing season soon. You want we should take some time off and come out to help?”

“Nah. Figure I can handle it this season.” Bucky's flock had been larger at one point, but he'd been forced to sell off fifty percent of his flock after late rains had ruined a significant portion of his winter feed. He was still recovering. 

“You don't have to.”

“Dum Dum.” There was that warning tone, the one that said he was stepping on an exposed nerve and had better back off unless they wanted to watch some fireworks.

“Sometimes you're a rotten fucker, Barnes.”

“And someday your mustache'll catch fire from all those cigars your smoke.”

He left Barnes to it and went inside the house to check on the others, who were gathered around a scarred table engaged in serious conversation. He dragged a chair over and plopped down to accept the flask that was making its rounds.

“What are we talking about?”

Just so happened the topic of conversation was their snarling bear currently brooding in the stables. Everyone knew Bucky wasn't the sunniest day of spring. Hell, everyone knew he had one of those histories nobody talked about. There were rumors, of course. Whispers of murder. Of a body so badly disfigured the bobbies back in Britain hadn't been able to identify the victim by anything but the signature cravat wrapped around a noble neck.

But no one knew for sure. That was the benefit of a place like New Zealand. Long as a body worked hard, nobody gave a shit about anyone's past. 'Cept for men like Pierce, who thought their britches were bigger than they actually were.

So they all agreed they had a problem on their hands. Bucky Barnes was not a nice man, and most days, he was alone out here on his property with nothing but a bunch of sheep and a dog named Winter. What he lacked was that feminine touch. What he lacked was the civilizing influence of a woman to keep him warm at night, a partner he could have children with, a family he could invest in.

Not that Barnes would ever admit to needing any of those things. Hell, they'd never even seen him visiting any of the unmentionable places, those houses no one spoke of but every man knew about where the comfort of a warm pair of a thighs and a willing cunt could be purchased for a paltry sum.

But Dum Dum figured that even bears got lonely. They might live solitary lives, but they still met up once in a blue moon to make babies and be tender toward one another.

Ultimately, it was Monty's idea. James Falsworth had been disinherited by his father and left England in disgrace for marrying someone of lower birth. Together with his wife and daughter, Jacqueline, they lived a comfortable life in New Zealand and worked a large tract of land in the Ashburton District of Canterbury. Monty was the oddball of their group. Neither an ex-convict nor a man of the sea, but he was fleeing something the way the rest of them were.

The plan was simple: run an advert in Ireland offering to pay passage for any woman of good reputation to the colony in New Zealand. It was an attractive offer. Food and opportunity were becoming scarce in Ireland, especially for unmarried women, and only the poorest and most desperate came over on one of the unpaid ships where dysentery and scarlet fever could wipe out twenty percent of the passengers before arrival.

Finding a good candidate in New Zealand was also improbable. Few unmarried women had made the journey as of yet, and those who had were quickly snapped up by a male population hungry for female companionship. So importing a woman was the most feasible idea.

All they needed to do was get her there and get her married to Bucky before she found out how much of a crabby fucker he could be. Then, they would hope for the best.

They wrote out the advert in a scrap of paper.

**Wanted: A woman of good virtue, hardy nature, and calm demeanor to marry one James Buchanan Barnes of New Zealand. Mr. Barnes owns his own land and is in a position to provide a comfortable life for the woman willing to make the journey to become his wife.**

**If interested, contact Timothy Cadwallader of Invercargill, Southland, New Zealand, sending a portrait, a brief description, and any special travel requirements.**

*

Stevie's face was flushed red from heat. Steam poured off the vats of hot water in which laundry soaked, causing her to feel faint, but she pushed on, slight body rising to meet the challenge of dragging cloth heavy with water to the wringer to being the drying process.

Her hands ached. The joints of her knuckles were swollen, but she couldn't take a break. The factory owner, Johann Schmidt, was due for an inspection any day this week, so their manager leaned heavier on them than normal. The piggish little man was good at barking orders but bad at providing them adequate help to get the jobs done on time.

She grabbed the cloth as it emerged from the wringer and put it through a second time before passing it off to Maggie, who would be in charge of taking it to the ironing girls. Better the wringer than the heavy irons, she thought. Her back wouldn't tolerate the strain.

Some might call her too delicate for this sort of work. It was labor-intensive and back-breaking. She went home to a room she rented with several other girls exhausted and collapsed into bed at the end of every night before rising to begin the process anew the following morning.

Polly and Maggie were two of her roommates, both stout women who weren't afraid of what the gossip mongers said about them entertaining men at all hours of the night. They drank. They cursed. They had reputations that would make cultured women have an attack of the vapors.

And Stevie counted herself lucky to live with them. Fading into the background was easier when surrounded by women who stole the spotlight, and she desperately wanted to blend in.

“We're going out tonight, Stevie, and you're coming with us,” Polly called from across the warehouse.

She opened her mouth only to be talked over.

“We won't take no for an answer.”

“It's not natural,” Maggie said, “for a woman your age to not be out and about. Don't you want to find a good lad and settle down?”

“Motherhood isn't for me,” she claimed.

“That's silly. Motherhood is for all women.”

A pang of regret made her heart skip a beat because she would love to be a mother. She would love to carry a child, to give birth, to hold a baby in her arms, but it was biologically impossible, one of those dreams no amount of prayer could answer. Even if God were willing to listen to the pleas of a deviant.

Polly's expression shifted into one closer to regret, and she came over to rub a meaty hand across Stevie's back. “Och, darlin'. Can you forgive us for being so heartless?”

“Of course.”

The reality was that even though she had the necessary parts for children, it wouldn't make a difference. Who knew what went on inside her body, whether or not her internal structures were capable of producing children even if she ever found someone who wouldn't report her to the church or a hospital for being the way she was. So what if her outside parts couldn't decide if she were meant to be a woman or a man? She will wouldn't survive childbirth, not with her size and many ailments. It was a sore subject often mentioned by people with clumsy mouths and even clumsier minds.

They collected their wages at the end of their shift at six of the clock, and while the girls went out to spend their money on booze and other pleasures that might numb the grinding poverty, Stevie went home, stopping along the way for a meager bowl of soup and crust of bred at the chapel where nuns took it upon themselves to help feed the hungry. 

Their room at a tenement building was small, had a lockable door, and contained four tiny beds. Washing hung in front of the windows and over radiators that put out substandard heat.

Shannon, their fourth roommate, was already home from the tailor where she kept shop.

Stevie collected her night shirt and a clean pair of knickers from the line stretched across her side of the room in preparation for visiting the single water closet in the building.

“Don't know why you don't just change in here,” Shannon said without looking away from her embroidery. “Seems a waste of effort. You shy, Stevie?”

“Aye. Shy as a mouse,” she responded.

Shannon didn't remark on the eccentricity again, so Stevie hurried to the bathroom. Beneath her chemise, she wore a tightly laced corset, a hand-me-down from her mother, God rest her soul. Stiff whalebone dug painfully into her skin, and when she released the hooks and eyes, a deep breath filled her lungs. Aching hands gripped the sink's edge until her knuckles were white as the porcelain.

The corset enhanced what little breast tissue she possessed. It was painful, wearing it while working all day, but the penalty of being discovered far outweighed any physical misery. So was pricking her inner thigh and smearing a bit of blood on her knickers to produce the effect of a cycle so irregular she never knew from one month to the next if she would have one.

Finally ready for bed, she returned to the room to find Shannon still squinting at her embroidery in the fading light. Stevie didn't bother warning her that her eyes would go bad that way. Hell, her own eyes weren't all that great either. The thing was that Shannon worked grueling hours just like the rest of them and often brought home extra work. It was the way life worked for people existing at the bottom of the social stratosphere.

The following morning began before the sun rose. All four girls got up. They fought over the bathroom, so to jump ahead, Stevie got up extra early to change back into her chemise, woolen dress, and apron. Getting out early also meant she could stop at the cathedral again where nuns served slices of bread and cups of hot tea to people queued up around the block.

Then it was back to the laundry factory. Stevie stopped on the way to tie her wheaten hair up with a scarf so it would stay out of her face. Other workers were already arriving for their shift, and overnight employees had kept the fires beneath the cauldrons going, so it was warm water she plunged her hands into for the first bed sheet of the day.

Someone started up a song. The rest of them joined in. It helped pass the day, helped keep their minds off the drudgery of their lives, and brought a certain amount of cheer.

Johann Schmidt's arrival killed the cheer dead.

He appeared outside Little Piggie's office in a black, wool-lined coat with a walking stick and a top hat. Stevie, a recent hire, hadn't seen him before. She was struck immediately by the redness of his face. Be it a birthmark or his natural complexion, it made him look ghastly, a horror dreamed up from the depths of a depraved mind. She found herself unsettled.

Johann moved through the various areas to watch them work. Now and then, Little Piggie took notes on a sheaf of paper or issued orders to the women to correct their form or to urge them to go faster.

They were nearing Stevie's section when she overheard Johann say, “Double the output.”

Little Piggie responded, “These women, I am not sure they have the strength.”

“Then use up what strength they have left, Doctor. There are always more workers.”

Which was disgusting enough. They were people, not workers, and despite her precarious situation, she turned to say just that, drawing the attention of Mr. Schmidt, Little Piggie, and every other woman in the factory, and when would she learn to keep her damn mouth shut?

Schmidt approached, smart boot heels clicking against the stone floor. “You are unsatisfied with your position, Miss...”

“Rogers,” supplied Little Piggie. “Stíofáinín Rogers.”

“Stevie,” she corrected, chin jutting out. “And you can't do that. We're people. Only evil men use up what strength we have left and cast us aside like refuse.”

Polly and Maggie murmured something nearby, but neither dared intervene.

They hadn't have bothered anyway, as Mr. Schmidt took Stevie by the elbow and moved her toward Little Piggie's office, saying, “Perhaps we will talk more about your insubordination.”

By “talk more,” she figured he meant “beat you into submission,” and that was fine. Stevie Rogers knew how to take a beating. She'd been taking beatings most of her life.

Mr. Schmidt pushed her hard enough through the door that she fell into a giant desk inside.

“What you do not understand,” he said in his German accent, “is that you are refuse, little one. You exist to serve the pleasures of those of higher status than you, a world I helped create. Perhaps you need a reminder of your place.”

True fear spiked through her guts. Shaking her head frantically, she stepped away from him, but there was nowhere to go. There were no other exits from the office, and he stood between her and freedom. All she could do was dodge, which she did when he came at her the first time.

Her life only lasted so long as it took him to catch her, and that was a laughably short amount of time given her lungs and his health. Breath wheezed in her chest when he caught her and pushed her down against the desktop. She struggled despite how her throat thinned, but nothing helped.

Nothing stopped him from fumbling with the lengths of her skirt and dragging it up over her hips. Thin knickers were no protection at all against his hands tearing the cloth and revealing the body she was born into. Hot tears joined the struggle for breath.

“What is this?” he hissed.

Her genitals were on full display.

Fingers covered in black gloves closed around the nape of her neck. He lifted her. He turned her. He slammed her against a wall, fury deepening the red of his complexion and contorting his features.

“What are you? You're a deviant. You're unholy.”

Both hands gripped her neck this time, and she brought her own up as a feeble defense, pushing against his face in an attempt to turn his head or somehow dislodge the grip cutting off what remained of her airway. Her chest burned. Her vision darkened.

She was going to die.

Then a hand brushed against something metal in his front coat pocket. It was a pen. A simple fountain pen with a sharpened nib, and she didn't hesitate. She snatched it from his pocket and rammed it into his eye. He screamed. His hands dropped from her throat, but she didn't stop. She stabbed him again. And a third time with such finality the pen became buried in his eye socket.

Mr. Schmidt slumped to the floor.

Little Piggie called from outside, “Is everything all right?”

No, she wanted to scream. Nothing was all right. She was covered in Schmidt's blood. Any peeler worth his badge would take one look at the scene and condemn Stevie to hanging, and when they inevitably found out about her unusual conformation, she would be drawn and quartered and put on display as a warning to other deviants like her.

So she did the only thing she could. She ran. She exited the office at a dead sprint, and Little Piggie was surprised enough he didn't immediately go after her. In fact, there weren't even any calls for alarm until she was outside the factory and heading into the slums where the buildings were cramped and the tight press of humanity allowed some small notion of anonymity.

But the peelers pursued, forcing her to stay on the run, and she knew deep down that she would never be safe in Ireland again. The only way to stay alive would be to leave, not just Ireland, but England and Scotland as well.

Exhausted and filthy, she paused beside a mail room whose windows were plastered with various notices. One such advert caught her attention.

**Wanted: A woman of good virtue, hardy nature, and calm demeanor to marry one James Buchanan Barnes of New Zealand. Mr. Barnes owns his own land and is in a position to provide a comfortable life for the woman willing to make the journey to become his wife.**

**If interested, contact Timothy Cadwallader of Invercargill, Southland, New Zealand, sending a portrait, a brief description, and any special travel requirements.**

Stevie gripped a locket around her neck. It was the only thing she had left of her mother, and inside, she kept a lock of her mother's hair and a miniature portrait of the two of them from better days, days when Stevie's father still lived and their cobbler business prospered.

Before the day was out, the picture, along with Stevie's general description, were on its way to one Timothy Cadwallader.


	2. Premarital Counseling

Mail took time to travel between Britain and the colony in New Zealand, so a few months passed before Stevie heard back from Mr. Cadwallader about her offer to marry Bucky Barnes. Of course, she had no real intention of going through with the marriage. Talk about a good way to die. She had every intention of arriving at the port and slipping away while everyone's backs were turned.

Sure, she felt badly about fleecing Mr. Cadwallader out of the money he put up for travel expenses, but when compared with her life, she could learn to live with the guilt. Especially considering there was no way she would survive the trip as an unpaid passenger. 

Quarters for the unpaid were notoriously bad. Having so many people packed inside cramped confines formed a breeding ground for diseases like dysentery and Scarlet Fever. Given her overall health, she would never survive the trip. The only chance she had was as a paid passenger with her own quarters and enough good food to keep herself healthy and away from the infected.

Getting and staying healthy was an uphill battle. Life on the run and living on the streets meant she was already in deplorable condition when she received news that her offer had been accepted. She'd dropped even more weight and had developed a cough that had settled deep in her lungs.

So she boarded a vessel called the Sea Falcon on a dreary Monday morning with the clothes on her back and a ticket and travel vouchers clenched in her hands under the name of Stíofáinín Connolly after her mother's maiden name. Someone from the New World who introduced himself as Luis took her ticket. He clucked his tongue behind his teeth, said something in his native language, and led her below deck to a tiny cabin.

It was small but sufficient, with its own window that opened enough to allow fresh air in from off the sea. There was a wash basin and stand and a ceramic pot in which to defecate. To her weary eyes, it looked like paradise. She sank onto the bunk, wrapped herself in her shawl, and for the first time since Schmidt's attack, allowed herself to cry.

She slept that night better than she had in her life. There was a locked door between her and the rest of the world, and she felt the ship as it lurched away from the dock, leaving the peelers and every bad thing that had happened to her behind in Ireland.

The following morning, a soft knock sounded on her door.

“Who's there?”

“Captain Wilson, madam.”

She cracked open the door just enough to get a look at the handsome man standing on the other side. He was dressed smartly in a captain's uniform, and his hair was twirled into artful twists. It had been a long time since she'd found someone attractive, but Captain Wilson was definitely attractive.

“Morning, madam. Just thought I would stop by and check how you're doing. Breakfast is being served in the galley if you'd like to come down.”

Her glance darted back into her room where it was safe and comfortable.

“It's included in the fare for your ticket,” he reassured.

Eventually, she opened the door the rest of the way because she had to eat. That meant she had to leave her cabin at some point. Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she curtseyed when the captain offered a little bow and his elbow.

She accepted his elbow and followed him into the galley where paid guests were settled at tables. They weren't being served by dashes running hither and thither. Definitely no knights of the napkins, but it looked orderly and clean.

She took a bowl of porridge and a slice of bread and found a seat at a table away from the others and figured that would be it. Only, it wasn't. Captain Wilson sat across from her with his own breakfast and a cup of dark coffee. Coffee was a luxury that Stevie had never tasted before.

“My first mate, Luis, said you've got a cough.”

Her stomach felt like it dropped into her feet. “It's not serious, Captain, but I'll gladly stay in my cabin away from everything for the remainder of the journey, I have no intention of--”

He held up a hand. “Looks to me your physical condition has a lot to do with your cough. Just so you know, I'll be sending by my personal physician, Doctor Banner, to take a look at you this afternoon.”

And panic. A physical examination would reveal certain things about her personage that would endanger her life, and there wasn't anywhere to run aboard a sailing vessel on the open ocean. Her hands started shaking. Her breathing quickened.

“Hey, Miss Connolly, I need you to calm down and breathe for me, okay? There's no reason to be frightened.”

The look she offered him was sour, she knew, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph was she tired of being frightened all the time. After a moment, she got her breathing under control and sat up straighter at the table to finally say, “That won't be necessary, Captain.”

“Actually, I think it is necessary. You see, I have a reputation to uphold. Some amount of sickness aboard a vessel like this is commonplace and expected, but let's not besmirch my good name by adding to the statistics, yeah? I assure you that Dr. Banner has the utmost discretion.”

What could she say to that without making herself appear suspicious? Nothing. So she reluctantly agreed, and Dr. Banner arrived at her cabin later that afternoon carrying a doctor's bag and looking all-too-grave even given the nature of his profession.

In the end, she had nothing to fear. Dr. Banner didn't ask that she remove her clothing. He listened to her chest and back. He took down her history of ailments and prescribed a tea to help with the cough, and as weeks ticked by, the ache in her lungs diminished.

Soon enough, she was allowed to spend time on deck in the sunshine and did so with a new sort of wonder. The endless leagues of ocean fascinated her. She often whiled away the hours sitting at the railing watching the waves. Most spectacular was the afternoon a pod of dolphins came to swim along the prow of their ship. Sleek, gray bodies glistening in the afternoon sun cut through the water.

Later that evening, she asked Luis if she could have the scrap of paper he unwrapped from around a package and the nub of pencil he carried in his coat pocket. He agreed, so she collected the supplies and sat beneath a rigging lantern sketching the dolphins.

Years had passed since she'd drawn anything, since her mother and father had been able to afford the luxury of extra paper and pencils. She was rusty at first but soon filled every inch of the piece of paper with doodles of growing confidence and skill. She worked so late into the night that Peter, one of the riggers, chased her below decks and out of the night air with a friendly reminder of her weak lungs.

The next morning, a small pad of paper and a whole pencil awaited her at her usual spot in the galley. Eyes wide, she clutched them to her chest and looked around to see if she could identify who had given her such treasures. The culprit didn't reveal their identity, but she had a strong feeling Luis and Captain Wilson were involved, as neither man would make eye contact for very long.

Turned out that life aboard the ship wasn't anything like her previous life in Ireland. The crew were welcoming and kind. Despite one terrible storm that had the passengers panicking and the crew scrambling to batten down the hatches, the weather held nicely. She spent much of her time in the sun, either sketching or talking to Luis and Captain Wilson.

Captain Wilson was a gem. He treated her in a way no other man had: like she mattered and was worthy of human dignity. Even after weeks knowing him, it still took her by surprise that he invited her to dine with him and didn't look down his nose or shoo her away like a piece of rubbish to be walked over. He was funny. Between Luis and the good captain, she laughed often and well.

There were times when she thought maybe she could have fallen in love with Captain Wilson, but of course it was impossible. Love was not for people like her. She couldn't imagine a world in which she would be safe enough to be in a loving, sexual relationship, that she could ever allow herself to be that vulnerable around another person.

So it was with a heavy heart that she watched the ship dock at Akaroa Harbor. The idyllic period of her life concluded when she said farewell to Luis and Captain Wilson and walked down the gangway onto the dock, setting foot on solid ground again.

The harbor was crowded. Bodies packed the narrow passages. People dodged to avoid carts laden with goods coming to and going from the area. Everywhere, there was salt. Salt from the ocean. The smell of brine filled her nostrils. Fish. People. Animals. Manure. The sensations overwhelmed her.

She looked around to decide her best course of action. She should try to hitch a ride leaving the port city, get away from the area, lose herself in a new country and find employment. If nothing else, she could fall back on domestic work for the wealthier families who'd already arrived.

Those plans collapsed the second a ginger man shouted her name while waving meaty arms over his head. He hurried in her direction, cheeks ruddy and a welcoming smile on his face.

This was not supposed to happen. She was supposed to have had time to consider her next move. Fight or flight blared to life. Run, she commanded her feet, but they remained rooted to the wooden planks beneath them like they were nailed in place.

“Stevie Connolly?”

Numb, she nodded.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss.” With a touch of gallantry, he swept a bowler hat off his head and dipped into a bow. “Timothy Cadwallader, but everyone calls me Dum Dum. Reckon you should as well. I have a cart ready to take you into Mackenzie. It's about a half day trip, so we should get your things and get started.”

“I don't have things,” she commented, chin tilting in what her mum always called her stubborn look. Because it was true. She'd come from Ireland with the clothes on her back and had only the pad of paper and pencil given to her which she clutched to her chest.

“Well, that won't do. Bucky will make sure you have the things you need. Shall we?”

Heart beating a staccato rhythm, she followed him to a buckboard wagon. A pair of mismatched ponies were hitched to the cart. They stamped muddy hooves and shook shaggy manes to disperse the flies that had landed on their ears.

She accepted the hand Dum Dum offered to climb onto the bench.

He swung up beside her, collected the reins, and kicked the brake to unlock the wheels. Then, both ponies lurched into motion. They were off. Off to Stevie's dooms unless she found a means of escape before the wedding chapel.

They rode in silence for some time. From what Captain Wilson had told her, the colony in New Zealand was still young but had been built on the remains of the previous inhabitants. The governor, George Grey, had only just submitted the Second Constitution Act granting the New Zealand colony its own government independent from New South Wales.

The newness showed in the haphazard construction they passed. Wooden buildings were in various stages of being erected. Vendors still did business out of tents on the outskirts of the city, and arriving families pitched tents wherever available until they could find work and better accommodations.

She could only imagine what Mr. Barnes' residence was like, though she could hardly complain given that she'd been living in the streets since she'd killed Mr. Schmidt. A tent would be a palace in comparison to that. Not that she would be spending time in Mr. Barnes' residence.

Eventually, Dum Dum broke the silence between them by asking, “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful, thankfully.”

Another awkward silence descended between them as they passed the final building and the cloister of the town spread out into rolling hills. There was so much green. People say Ireland is green. Stevie wasn't too sure, as she'd only spent time in the city, buried under grease from oil lanterns and fumes spewed from industrial warehouses.

The openness allowed something tight inside her chest to ease. She coughed on the first breath of clean air and struggled to take in the next, aware that Dum Dum stared at her from his seat beside the brake. After a few moments, her lungs became accustomed to the cleanness, and she breathed easier.

“Listen,” Dum Dum began, “Try not to judge Bucky too badly, yeah? There's times when he's quite pleasant, and he's been behaving himself the last few months. He hasn't gotten into a single fight. 'Course Brock's away right now, so that's got something to do with it?”

“Bar fights?”

“It's the drinking that does him in, you know. Keep him away from the tavern and he's right as rain. Grumpy as a sour cat but still a good bloke. That's why me and the lads got together and decided what he needs is a wife. You know how us lads get when left to our own devices. We need lasses like you to keep us civilized. And Bucky, he hasn't had a woman to take care of him in a long time.”

Another surge of panic jolted her guts. Men who hadn't had sex for long stretches of time were more prone to not taking no for an answer. Technically, a woman wasn't allowed to say no once married. It said so in the wedding vows, that every woman must do her conjugal duties, and the thought of climbing beneath a man and him reaching under her skirt...

Her lungs squeezed. Breathing became difficult again. Delicate bones creaked as she clutched the wagon's edge, knuckles bloodless. Everything faded into a dark haze as her body struggled to pull in that next breath, as she struggled to remain conscious.

Then there was a warm hand between her shoulder blades, and a kind voice filling her ears, and her lungs relaxed enough to allow a breath through the gauntlet.

“You're okay, Miss Connolly,” crooned Dum Dum. “Those damned ships are known for being breeding grounds of plague. I shoulda made the trip to Ireland to pick you up, make sure you weren't exposed to anything nasty while aboard.”

She waved away his comment. “Captain Wilson and Mr. González were good to me. This is an affliction I've had since childhood.”

“Bucky isn't a mean man. He'll make sure you see a doctor when you need one.”

They stopped at midday in a village for lunch in a tavern. Everyone there seemed to know Dum Dum. People called out greetings and asked if he'd finally found someone stupid enough to marry him. Those who heard him proclaim that Stevie was James' fiancée fell silent with aghast expressions.

Stevie wondered if Dum Dum intended on marrying her off to the devil himself. At least it seemed that way from the reaction of those around them. Perhaps she had best get used to it given that the Church claimed Hell to be her destination for being a deviant. Thinking about it twisted her insides.

After the midday meal, they got back in the cart to continue their journey and didn't arrive in Mackenzie until the sun had nearly disappeared behind the horizon. The town was surprisingly tidy. Streets were dirt and mud, but the buildings were well-constructed. There seemed to be a basic plan in place for zoning the area. A main strip served as home to a mercantile, a barber, a tailor, and various other industries necessary for a growing community.

The tavern was a few streets over. Noise spilled outside from the rowdy patrons within. A warm glow emanated through real glass windows. Women dressed in a low-cut blouses and skirts tucked into their belts served thirsty guests, but they weren't stopping at the tavern to collect the bridegroom. Rather, they continued down the lane and turned toward a hill. A church stood at the apex.

That meant there was no escape. She was getting married in a few minutes to a man named James Buchanan Barnes. Later that night, he would demand his rights to her body, and she would die. She would die, or she would kill again.

Her heart was a hummingbird when Dum Dum came around to collect her. She clasped his hand and hopped down from the wagon to go to her doom. Her doom existed inside a whitewashed building with a high steeple and a bell. Candles brightened the interior and allowed her to see a gathering of men sitting in the front pew and a priest looking bored as he scribbled on a pad of paper.

The men stood. No one had thought to include a portrait of James in the advert, so she had no idea what to expect but got the feeling he was the one being supported by a black man and the sort of man she hadn't seen before and therefore couldn't place his origins. They herded the drunk man to the altar.

Dum Dum swept his hat off his head, slicked back his hair, and presented her with his arm. “Whenever you're ready, Miss Connolly.”

Something hysterical caused laughter to bubble up from her insides. Settling her fingers on his arm, she walked down the aisle to meet her bridegroom, who reeked of whiskey and body odors and whose long hair had been scraped back into a tie at the back of his neck.

She almost laughed again when Dum Dum placed her hand in James'. James looked down at her with a glassy expression, like he wasn't entirely sure what was going on. And wasn't that lovely? A farce of a marriage performed between a woman fleeing from murder and deviance charges and a bridegroom drunk at his own wedding. Maybe he was drunk enough he couldn't perform and would pass out shortly after arriving at wherever their home was meant to be.

The ceremony was short. That didn't matter to her. Most marriages were when you came from poverty. They exchanged their vows, and James jammed a silver band on her ring finger. She hissed from the pain of having her finger wrenched at an unnatural angle but didn't think it broke.

When the priest told them to exchange a kiss, she stood on tip-toe, and he brushed a chaste one against her mouth. His lips were chapped, and he smelled even worse upon closer inspection, like sweat, leather, stale booze, and sheep. No wonder his friends had needed to send away for a bride. The only thing that struck her as remotely appealing was the shade of his eyes. They were an arresting shade of blue that caused her to take an extra breath.

*

Clearly, her new husband was too drunk to operate a wagon and a team of horses, so Dum Dum and a man he introduced as Gabe Jones drove them to their destination. It was a good hour outside of town in a remote valley in the Mackenzie Basin, but by that point, it was too dark to take in any of the details. The moon provided just enough light to see a barn, a house, and a few other outbuildings.

As they pulled up outside the barn, a dog came tearing from inside barking up a flurry. The dog spun in quick circles, so excited at the return of its master it wound up wiggling its whole body instead of just its tail. It was also the first reaction aside from drunken lethargy she'd seen from James. He smiled a big, beautiful smile that caused crinkles to form at the corners of his eyes and practically fell from the wagon to wallow on the ground with his dog.

If she could gain the dog's trust, she might use it against its master long enough to escape.

That was for another day, though, as Gabe helped James up and escorted them into the house. No one bothered flicking on any lights. They all knew their way, and she was left to follow and watch them dump her husband onto a good-sized mattress covered in a patchwork quilt.

“He'll probably sleep the night through,” Dum Dum commented when she saw them to the door. “He gives you any trouble, though, you let us know.”

“You're leaving me with a drunk man who might do something that would require your assistance, and I don't even know how to find you?” she demanded, tone rising.

“No, no,” he rushed to reassure. “James there would never harm a woman. No need to worry about your safety. Just make sure he don't fall out of bed or nothing. Hit his head. Sometimes he likes to wander, you know. Try to keep him inside if he does.”

They'd married her to a drunkard. It was a stroke of luck. She could leave tonight, as he already seemed to have passed out. But where would she go? She knew nothing about her surroundings. Anyone in the town of Mackenzie would likely recognize her as an outsider. There were too many logistical problems to flee without knowledge about the local terrain and pockets of civilization.

After seeing Dum Dum and Gabe—he'd already unhitched the horses and turned them out into their pasture—out, she headed back into the bedroom. James snored. Traveling performers had once passed through Dublin with a bear. The sound of it roaring had left an impression. Her new husband snored the way a bear roared.

She intended to leave and sleep elsewhere for the night, but before she could take a step, a hand grasped her. James gave a quick tug that toppled her onto the mattress. She squeaked.

“'S late,” he slurred. “Time for sleep.”

The first words her husband had spoken to her.

She tensed to move, but her escape was thwarted by an arm that snaked around her waist. It was a thick arm, one corded with the kind of muscle she had no hope of overpowering. She was trapped, trapped by a snoring bear of a man who'd said a total of five words to her since their marriage.

*

Stevie startled awake to an enraged bellow.

She sat up, heart hammering, breath struggling through her lungs, and looked frantically around the bedroom. It didn't take long to find the source of irritation. James Buchanan Barnes stood on his side of the bed staring down at her with a look somewhere between outrage and confusion.

“Who are you?”

“I'm your wife. Apparently.” She waved her hand at him, sunlight catching on the silver band.

A language she'd never heard tumbled from his tongue. By his tone and the redness of his face, she supposed they were curse words, and Stevie, exhausted from traveling and terror, had about as much patience as a cornered badger.

She threw herself out of bed and squared her shoulders. “You going to make something of it?”

James opened and closed his mouth before muttering, “I can't believe they went through with it. Pricks. They'll regret knowing me when I'm done with them.”

“Or you could thank your friends who went to a lot of trouble and expense to make sure you had someone in your life to take care of you, since you clearly can't take care of yourself.” She indicated the state of his hygiene, his unwashed shirt and uncombed hair.

“You're one of those women,” he snapped.

“If you mean the kind of woman who doesn't want to faint from your bodily fumes, then yes.”

He pulled lips back from teeth. “I don't like you, and I don't want you here.”

“Well, I don't like you, and I don't want to be here. File for an annulment and point me in the direction of the nearest place a woman can make a decent living to survive on her own.”

“That way!” He jerked a finger toward the east.

Huffing, she tugged her apron back on, tied it around her waist, and stomped through the house, managing to slam the front door with enough force to make herself proud. She got as far as the dirt lane before the door opened behind her.

“Are you forgetting any luggage?” he called after her.

She turned and planted hands upon hips. “I didn't brang any luggage!” she shouted back before turning and resuming her stomp toward the fence and metal gate marking the boundary of his homestead.


	3. The Honeymoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sensitive topics like slavery and the plunder of native arts for European trade.

Fifteen minutes of furious walking, worn shoes kicking up dirt, left Stevie feeling wilted. She hadn't slept well. For obvious reasons. That combined with ongoing stress over further obvious reasons left her feeling fatigued, so marching back toward town in a furious huff sounded like a good idea. In theory. In reality, she wasn't at all sure she could make it. 

Which was about the time she heard hooves striking the ground behind her and turned to find James Buchanan Barnes astride a liver chestnut horse cantering in her direction. He rode bareback and without reins, and the horse stopped when they were side by side.

Of course he didn't speak. He was a caveman. Instead, he hitched his arm around her waist and hauled her onto the horse in front of him, turning them back in the direction toward home-- _his_ home-- and urging the horse into a slower gait. It likely had nothing to do with not wanting to jostle her.

“You ain't even eaten this morning. I'm not sending you off with an empty belly. Later, I'll hitch up the team and take you into town myself, try to make some arrangements for you to have work and a place to stay until we figure out this mess the Commandos got us into.”

Mr. Barnes' home in the light of day wasn't as sinister or dastardly as it had been the night before. It looked newly constructed. Fresh wood filled the interior with the scent of beech. The floors were swept clean. Tables and chairs looked sturdy. Glass filled every window. Whatever could be said about Mr. Barnes, he clearly took pride in his home.

It wasn't until she watched him take a pan crusted with old, burnt-on food and crack eggs into it that she cringed. That was not happening. With her weak immune system and nervous stomach, she was not eating food that came out of that pan. Rather than saying something, she butted her hip against his to push him out of the way.

He scoffed.

She glared.

He turned loose of the pan.

“You're supposed to wash these before you reuse them. Every poor, Irish skivvy knows that.”

His tone, when he spoke, was petulant. “I ain't Irish. Nor a skivvy.”

“Then get outta the way.”

Another shove sent Mr. Barnes retreating, who stepped onto the front porch and disappeared out to the barn. The dog barking made it easy tracking her new husband's movements around the homestead, as it tended to follow in his wake, whether it be letting the sheep out to pasture or herding geese from their overnight lodgings toward a copse of trees out behind the house.

By the time he brought in a couple of large eggs from the geese, she had the pans and dishes cleaned up and lard melting before cracking the eggs into a skillet. She placed the skillet over a grate in the home's main fireplace and added a couple hunks of crusty bread to soak up the lard.

“Got a stove right there, love,” commented Mr. Barnes.

The look she shot him could have cooked their breakfast. “I'm not after learning how to use that monstrosity yet. And don't call me that. I'm not your love.” She cringed. Politeness with regards to a man she didn't know, a man she was married to and who had rights to all her worldly goods including her body would go a long way, so she corrected herself. “Sorry, but don’t call me that. We’re married. We’re not in love.”

Mr. Barnes rocked back until his chair was balanced on its two back legs. He said nothing, merely watched her as she went about cooking their breakfast. It was unnerving, his quietness and his attention, but she tried not to let it bother her.

She set the table with freshly washed dishes, poured them coffee, and served their food before seating herself opposite Mr. Barnes, who tucked into his food with some measure of trepidation. Whatever he expected, he was proven wrong, and soon ate with a gusto, grunting now and then in a way she hoped expressed his pleasure over the meal.

Not that she wanted him to enjoy it.

Wanting him to enjoy it meant she cared.

Which she didn't.

He was a boorish man, and that estimation was coming from the poorest of the poor from the slums of Ireland. At least she had manners.

Every now and then, she glanced at the darkening sky, and her worst fears were confirmed when thunder made the house shudder. Black clouds crowded the skyline. She glanced out the window while washing up after breakfast to see a bolt of lightning strike down on a distant mountain.

Then came the rain. Fat drops peppered the ground, and Mr. Barnes launched himself from his seat at the table to rush back outside. Winter let out a flurry of barking and raced along beside him toward the orchard where the geese had been busy eating weeds, but the geese were scared. They scattered.

And moments later, another ragged jolt of lightning struck the ground much nearer the Barnes farmstead, sending Stevie's heart into her throat. Not that she cared if Mr. Barnes perished. But his dog was rather cute, and the geese didn't deserve her ire.

Jaw clenched, she hurried outside, bracing herself against the pelting rain, and raced across the yard to help. The folds of her skirt proved a surprisingly good weapon when it came to herding geese. She held them out on either side and flapped them, sending geese in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Barnes shouted over the driving rain. “Get back in the house!”

“I don't want your dog to get killed by lightning!”

“I see. More concerned about my dog than your own husband.”

“The dog doesn't snore!”

Something magical happened; Mr. Barnes laughed. When he laughed, his face softened. Crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. His blue eyes seemed more luminescent. He was a beautiful man beneath the churlish behavior and the sinister danger he presented should he reach beneath her skirts.

Thunder clapped so loudly it shook the trees and broke them out of their momentary trance. Together, the three of them got the geese back into some semblance of order and hurried them back to the barn. The sheep were smart. They already huddled against the barn door and sprinted inside when Mr. Barnes threw it open to take refuge from the storm.

“What's his name?” she indicated the dog.

“Her name is Winter.”

Mr. Barnes went around locking down the barn shutters. Overhead, a loose slat rattled in the wind but clung precariously to its perch. Like the house, it was abundantly clear Mr. Barnes cared about his animals and the places in which they slept which was an unusual contradiction to the manner in which he cared for himself. It was a conundrum.

Stevie refused to admit she might be the slightest bit interested in figuring it out.

“We should head back inside. Get you dried out by the fire.”

She wasn't adverse to the idea and raced along beside him onto the covered porch wraping around the house. They made it inside and bolted the door shut just as the weather turned fouler.

There was only one problem.

“You said earlier you hadn't brought any luggage. Did you really expect to survive with one dress and broken down shoes?”

She looked down to the toe of her shoe peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt. It was scuffed and worn thin, and she could feel mud seeping through the thinner spots of the soles. Her stockings were soaked and muddy.

“Did you think a woman who wasn't in desperate straights would answer an advertisement to marry a strange man half-a-world away?”

“Fuck, I didn't want to marry anyone,” he snapped. “Pardon the language.”

Awkward silence settled between them.

He moved into the bedroom and returned with a shirt that he tossed in her direction. It would be big enough to come down to her knees, but the idea of being so out of dress in front of him terrified her. If the cloth draped wrong, if he reached beneath the hem, if he--

“Miss Connolly.”

She snapped back to attention, unaware how far she'd slithered into her own mind. “S-sorry,” she stuttered. Thankfully, she was cold enough she could blame the stuttering on being chilled instead of being terrified. “I didn't mean to...” Unsure how to finish the sentence, she brushed past him into the bedroom and closed the door, a sure sign asking for privacy.

Mr. Barnes might be a brute, but he obeyed her desire.

*

That night, Stevie was stiff as a log beneath the covers. Her own garments hadn't dried quickly enough to allow for wearing to bed, so she was stuck in Mr. Barnes' oversized shirt lying next to a man who had every right to climb on top of her and discover her secret. Sleeping in the same bed twice wasn't supposed to have happened. He'd promised to take her back into town.

The storm had taken that choice from them both, so she couldn't even blame it on her husband. The weather simply hadn't allowed travel without considerable risk. Not even she would ask him to risk his horses or his wagon on dirt roads in the middle of a thunderstorm.

So there she was, listening to him snore. He was on his side, his back to her, arms hugging a down-filled pillow and blanket riding low on his hips. He wasn't naked, praise Jesus. Rather, he wore his union suit, a one-piece garment that covered him from ankles to wrists and buttoned up the front. There were convenient flaps in the front and back to allow for easy access.

It looked nice and warm. While she was left wearing a shirt that barely came to her knees.

Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph.

His snoring stopped suddenly, causing her to stiffen. He shifted. He rolled onto his other side so he was facing her then went back to snoring. The top several buttons of his union suit were undone, revealing a swath of generous chest covered in dark hair, and something south of her navel stirred.

Heat rushed into her cheeks. She scrambled out of bed, breathing harsh.

Mr. Barnes woke, eyes sleep-lazy and confused. “What?”

“I'm sleeping on the Chesterfield,” she proclaimed, “because your snoring could wake the dead.”

Collecting a pillow, she turned and stomped into the living area where the sofa, a simple creature compared to some of the elaborate ones she'd seen working in the homes of the wealthy, awaited. She stretched out; it wasn't difficult considering her height. She yanked the hem of her borrowed shirt down to her knees, and tried to sleep.

The clock on the mantle ticked away the seconds. And the minutes.

Out of nowhere, a blanket flew across the room and landed in a heap next to the Chesterfield, and she glanced up to find Mr. Barnes, scowling again, proverbially shooting daggers at her with his eyes.

“You're a shrew,” he announced.

“You're a yappy little dog who cries when he doesn't get his way.”

He made a frustrated sound somewhere between a growl and a grunt and stormed into the bedroom.

Night two of life as Mrs. Barnes: spent sleeping on the sofa and entirely unmolested. Maybe marriage to Mr. Barnes wasn't such a bad thing. He might hate her just enough to not be attracted to her in the least, saving her secret from being revealed. One could hope.

But after a sleepless night, the dawn came too early, and shafts of sunlight roused her from a doze. Morning meant facing Mr. Barnes. It meant getting up, dressing, cooking breakfast, cleaning up, and hoping against hope they could make the trip back into Mackenzie that afternoon.

They did, in fact, but not with the buckboard. Mr. Barnes proclaimed the roads too muddy to risk it, so he saddled both horses. The liver chestnut with flaxen mane and tail he called Chomper. Another horse, this one dappled gray, he called Stomper.

Stevie didn't bring up the obvious until he led both horses from the barn, at which point, she said, “I've never ridden a horse in my life”

His shoulders slumped. “Of course not.” He wasn't disheartened long.

She shrieked in protest when he caught her around the waist and lifted her atop Chomper.

“You wanna stay on, you better bunch your skirt up and ride astride. Now, listen. She's a good horse. She's real calm. You want her to stop, you let go of the reins, and she'll stop. She'll do most of the work. You just worry about staying on that saddle.”

That said, he shortened the stirrups and tucked her feet into each one, and she felt a little more stable, a little more capable of surviving the ride into town. Also, she was far too interested in watching his pants stretch across his bottom when he swung himself aboard Stomper and took up the reins.

She survived the ride. Barely. Being jostled with her aching joints wasn't entirely amusing, but at least she didn't fall off and add to her ignominy. Turned out Mr. Barnes was right. Last night's storm had washed out a couple roads. Other spots, the horses waded through water up to their knees.

After two hours, they finally reached the outskirts of Mackenzie proper where activity picked up. People were out in force repairing shingles on their roofs or clearing away debris from fallen trees or re-erecting timber frames to be recovered by canvas to set up their shops again.

A couple people waved. Mr. Barnes didn't wave back. More often, people stared. Word had obviously gotten out that Mr. Barnes had married, and getting their first look at the infamous Mrs. Barnes twisted necks at unnatural angles. Wherever they went, gossip mongers were left twittering in their wake.

They stopped in front of the mercantile and dismounted. Rather, Mr. Barnes dismounted. Stevie started slipping from the saddle only to have a pair of strong hands catch her before she could hit the ground and make a fool of herself. The fact that one of his hands was on her bottom sent her into a tizzy that resulted in smacking his hands repeatedly and threatening to cut them off if he didn't keep them to himself.

He backed off, hands raised and muttered something about tetchy females.

Her mum had taught her too many manners to return a vulgar gesture.

Inside the mercantile was cool and ordered, and she recognized one of the men from their wedding standing behind the counter. Gabe Jones, she believed his name was. He greeted them warmly.

“How's married life treating you, Barnes?” She thought he sounded American.

“Miserably.”

“I can hardly believe that. Sweet thing like Mrs. Stevie Barnes here?”

Mr. Barnes grunted.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Barnes. He's always like this. So it ain't nothing personal.”

“Oh, it's personal,” she said. “I think he was expecting someone more agreeable.”

“I wasn't expecting no one at all! This is all your fault, yours and Dum Dum's and the rest of the Howlies sticking your noses where they don't belong.”

“Why do you call him Dum Dum?” she interrupted to ask.

“Because his brain's about as big as a snail's,” accused Mr. Barnes.

Stevie smacked his upper arm and admonished, “Sorry, but you shouldn't talk about your friends that way. It's rude and terribly unfair of you. I've met Mr. Cadwallader, and he's a fine gentleman.”

Mr. Jones hid laughter behind his hands.

Mr. Barnes looked like his head might catch on fire.

Eventually, Mr. Jones' mirth died down, and he asked, “What can I do for you, Bucky?”

“Bucky?” she repeated.

Mr. Jones looked thrilled beyond measure.

Mr. Barnes allowed his forehead to thump against the counter top.

“Bucky here used to work on a whaler ship 'long side me and Morita. See, I was fleeing America, 'cause my master said I took a shine to his daughter and was gonna hang me--”

“Wait, 'master?'”

“Slavery,” Bucky interjected. “Americans buy men and women brought over from Africa as slaves.”

“That's--” She wasn't sure how to continue. “That's not right. How can one man think he can own another? That's not just.” She reached across the table and covered Mr. Jones' hand. His dwarfed hers, but it was the only way she could think to comfort him for the things he'd been made to endure by the greed of men. He squeezed her hand in return.

“Back to my story. So I snuck myself onto a whaling ship that just so happened to be carrying Bucky here and Jim Morita. They found me in the hold and put me to work. Better than getting lynched for looking at a white man's daughter for more than two seconds, you know.”

Mr. Barnes squeezed Mr. Jones forearm. “You should have seen this skinny wretch. He was all ears and lips with hair out to here.” He placed his hands either side of his head to demonstrate. “We put some meat on his bones, and he turned out to be one of the hardest workers on the ship. Captain Brandt didn't regret for a day allowing him to stay on board.”

“Anyway, James is too serious, you know. You don't call a fella James on a whaling vessel. Not when you're surrounded by One-Eye Guiseppe or Saw-Tooth McGee. So we called him Bucky on account of his stiff upper lip.”

“I don't follow. What does the one have to do with a stiff upper lip?”

“He was always looking after us, you know. Telling us to keep our chins up. 'Buck up,' he'd say. 'Least there ain't no white whales trying to devour us.'”

She'd actually never seen Mr. Barnes' face so red. Or so fond.

“So what can I do for you today, Bucky?”

“We're filing for an annulment on account of the groom's friends getting him drunk just to make him say 'I do' at his own wedding and the bride being a shrew.”

She elbowed him in the ribs and caused him to grunt.

“So I need you to keep your ears out, see if there's any work around or some place Miss Connolly can stay. As soon as possible.”

Mr. Jones rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, shit. Thought you'd at least give it a go after Mrs. Barnes came all this way from Ireland expecting to get hitched. Single woman around here? She'll be like horseshit to flies. Beggin' your pardon, Mrs. Barnes.

“But I'll see what I can do. Mean time, you're better off keeping her out at your place. My extra room upstairs got rented out already, and I don't know of anywhere except setting up a tent where she might stay until other arrangements are made.”

Mr. Barnes cursed under his breath. He continued, “Fine. She needs new shoes, another change of clothes, a nightshirt, and whatever womanly things women require. Since it's your fault, the lot of you can share the cost with me. Even split, five ways.”

“Hey, what about Frenchie?”

“Frenchie left to go up to the North Island trying to make a peace treaty with the Maori and had nothing to do with this scheming. He shouldn't be saddled with the burden.”

If Mr. Barnes turned in time to see how her shoulders slumped at being referred to as a burden, he didn't let on. Mr. Jones did, though, and his big, brown eyes softened into something akin to empathy. Stepping from around the counter, he touched the back of her shoulder and said, “Let's get you something nice to wear, you know?”

Shopping with other people's money wasn't as amusing as one might expect. The whole time they went through the shop, she felt the weight of debt growing heavier on her shoulders, but Mr. Jones insisted she would need a warm coat. He insisted she needed the sturdiest pair of shoes. He insisted that her knickers should be thick instead of thin linen. And maybe he was right. Maybe they were all things she needed to survive in the harsh environment of New Zealand, but it still left her feeling sick.

So she was glad, relieved even, when a commotion outside was enough to distract Mr. Jones from loading the counter with the entire collection of his ready made garments.

An Englishman dressed in fine garments appeared to be in a heated argument with two men the likes of which she'd never seen before. They were tawny in color with long, black hair pulled into knots at the backs of their heads. Both men sported elaborate tattoos decorating their faces.

She was curious, of course, having never seen a person with such complex tattooing. The art style pulled at her, but Mr. Jones placed a hand on her arm as she attempted to get closer.

The reason became clear by their body language and the tension in the atmosphere.

Men standing around the Englishman placed hands upon weapons. 

The two natives held themselves coiled, shoulders tight beneath short capes decorated with feathers.

Between them was placed a box. It was a plain box, more a crate than anything one might consider ornate, but she wasn't near enough to get a glance at its contents. Whatever was inside was important enough to spark the Englishman's outrage.

“These are not good mokomokai.”

“They are captured warriors. Their worth is equal payment for rifles.”

“They're slaves. You see? The moko is not so fine a quality as the last shipment you brought for trade. Buyers in Europe do not care for the mokomokai of slaves sacrificed to make your clan wealthy.”

“You say that we lie? You say that we make false trade?” The larger of the two natives placed his hand upon a gun holstered on his hip. The man behind flared his eyes until the whites became more prominent. His face contorted. He bared his teeth and squared his shoulders.

She was quite certain she was about to see men get shot in the middle of the street, not an entirely unusual occurrence considering the number of months she'd lived on the streets. But Mr. Barnes appeared out of nowhere and stepped between the two groups. 

“Pierce, if Rangi says they're good, then they're good.”

“Like we'll take a drunkard's word for it,” chortled one of Pierce's accomplices, body language all aggression, but the man shut his trap after Pierce made a motion indicating silence.

“Tell me, Mr. Barnes, why an Australian convict and an ex-whaler-turned-sheep-farmer would step into the middle of negotiations over which he knows nothing about?”

Mr. Barnes looked around them at the people gathered along the street, those standing beneath the awnings of numerous shops, the women with their children clutched tight to their skirts. He moved his chin in their direction and said, “You want these good people to see blood?”

Pierce looked like he might make something of the situation only to relax and chuckle. His laughter was rich. He clapped a hand on Mr. Barnes' shoulder, an action that made Mr. Barnes shy away, and said, “I hear congratulations are in order. You must bring Mrs. Barnes by some time for dinner. Mrs. Pierce would love to meet her newest neighbor.”

The suggestion appeared to be an unwelcome one judging by Mr. Barnes' clenched fist. “Pay the men and take this off the streets.” He moved a hand in the direction of the crate.

Whatever the conflict between them, Mr. Pierce obliged the request. Crates were exchanged. The native men opened theirs to inspect rifles and ammunition, declared them acceptable, and turned to leave. Rangi paused beside Mr. Barnes, and the pair exchanged a brief conversation before both natives left, heading toward the outskirts of town.

“It's men like you,” Mr. Barnes began as Pierce and the others prepared to leave on a wagon, “who caused the Musket Wars. Fucking European greed.”

“Greed?” scoffed Pierce. “Tell me, Mr. Barnes, does your wife know she married a murderer?”


	4. Newlyweds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Animal death for sustenance. Discussion of the effects of colonization on native populations.

Their horses, saddlebags loaded with packages from Mr. Jones, trotted down the dirt lane leading away from Mackenzie. Hooves squelching through mud was the only noise disturbing the heavy silence.

At least until Stevie opened her mouth, “Are you really a murderer?”

An inhuman sort of sound emanated from Mr. Barnes throat, and his hands tightened on the reins, leather creaking under his grip. “None of your business.”

To say that it wasn't any of her business was unfair. She was his wife—for the time being at least—and deserved to know whether or not her husband had actually murdered someone. On the other hand, she had her own secrets she was desperate to protect and less inclined to pursue the subject.

“What was in the crate that Pierce found valuable enough to trade guns and munitions for?”

He glanced in her direction before turning his attention back to the road. “Mokomokai.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes. That was such a helpful answer. I feel more informed on the subject matter. Please accept my gratitude for explaining. I'll be sure to ask your dog the next time I'd like to know more about this country I've come to live in.”

The dryness of her sarcasm startled a laugh from Mr. Barnes. His mood, mercurial as it was, shifted again to something more melancholic. “The Māori practice moko. They're facial tattoos that connect them with their ancestors and signify their position and exploits. Mokomokai are the preserved heads of natives slain in combat.”

“Preserved heads.”

“British buy them up as curiosities. Māori trade them for muskets and munitions.”

“To fight the British overtaking their lands?”

“And each other.”

Stevie wasn't sure what to think about the information. Certainly, it wasn't her place as an outsider to tell the native populations what to do with their own artifacts, but it disturbed her to such an extent she remained silent the remainder of the trip home. Or rather, Mr. Barnes' home.

Winter greeted them with a flurry of barking, a greeting Mr. Barnes shared when he jumped down and wrestled with the dog in the dirt, clothes coming away wet and smeared with mud from the previous day's storms. Wild horses couldn't make her admit she found dog and master the least bit charming. If anything, the playfulness made extra work for her when she went to wash his clothing.

She hopped down on her own and collected the saddlebags containing packages wrapped in brown paper to take inside. It was too much, especially for someone who hadn't bought a new dress since her teenage years. At first, she didn't know what to make of the items laid across the bed, the door barred behind her by a chair braced beneath the latch. 

Though, it was impossible not to luxuriate in the soft cotton against her skin when she changed into clean bloomers and a chemise. Over that went a fine, whale-bone corset that curved her waist into a more feminine shape, a hoop skirt, and a gingham dress.

The dress was plain green and white check with a white collar and a full skirt. She would need to take it in at the waist. Few ladies were quite as small as her. Ready-made clothing never fitted properly on the first go, but she could see herself sitting by a fire placing delicate stitches to make the garment fit like it should, like it would if she'd been born the way society deemed a woman should be born.

Mr. Barnes knocked at the door.

Startled, she hurried to do up the buttons down the front and draped a plain apron over her wrist. Only then did she pull the chair away from the door and open it to find Mr. Barnes leaning his forearm against the door jamb, forehead braced on his arm.

“Bloody woman barring me from my own bed--” He stopped mid-rant and took a breath. His gaze darted up and down her body.

Wherever he looked, Stevie felt a tingle of something akin to excitement. Like maybe he enjoyed the way she looked. Maybe he might want to touch what lay beneath. Heat rushed into her cheeks and the tips of her ears, and she looked away.

“Mr. Barnes.”

“Christ's sakes. Enough with the 'Mr. Barnes' shite. For the remainder of our marriage, however long it lasts, call me Bucky. James if you absolutely must err on the side of formality.”

“Bucky,” she repeated, tasting the name as one might a hearty stew. “Beg your pardon.” She stepped aside and ducked under his arm to hurry past him. “There's supper to get on with.”

“You look nice.”

She damn near walked into the wall. Face afire, she turned just enough to bring him into her peripheral vision, taking in the thickness of his body and the breadth of his shoulders. She was attracted to her husband. The thought was like a lightning bolt. There had been other men she'd been attracted to, of course. Even a few women. But none could compare to the sheer animal want flooding her loins.

“Thank you,” she finally murmured before hurrying away.

Things only got worse that afternoon. Bucky leaned over her shoulder to show her how to load wood into the firebox to light the stove. He warned that keeping a fire going would require attention and plenty of wood reserves in winter, and while she lived with him, it would be her job to tend the fire throughout the day.

Having the heat of his body against her back and the casual placement of a broad hand on her waist as he bent over to load another log almost set her alight. Her cock swelled but was easily hidden beneath the folds of her skirt.

The feelings bubbling away inside Stevie were dangerous. She couldn’t risk becoming attached, not when the stakes were so high. Nothing good would come of it, so she stepped out of his reach and demonstrated her understanding of using the firebox.

He grunted.

“I'm gonna roll the tub out back. Start heating buckets of water over the fire.”

“What for?”

He looked at her twice in quick succession before answering in the same manner one might speak to a child. “Today is bath day. Do you like bathing in cold water?”

Color rushed to her cheeks again. She gave a quick shake of her head. 

Rather than standing around being made to feel like an incompetent, she gathered the yoke and two buckets to go outside to draw water from the well. The yoke was too big for her shoulders. It dwarfed her. By the time she had filled both buckets and suspended them from the yoke, she could hardly stand. The weight was greater than she had expected. She stumbled a step or two but was determined to do this one task, to prove to Mister-- to Bucky that she wasn't a waste of space. She could survive here.

Her body trembled, and she was drenched with sweat by the time she returned to the cabin. Taking the stairs was nearly her undoing, but she made it inside and settled each bucket on a grate across the fireplace to begin heating the water.

Spent, she collapsed into a chair. Opening the top two buttons of her dress allowed her to fan some of the heat from her body. She wasn't angry at Bucky for giving her such an arduous chore. On the contrary. No one had ever treated her as though she weren't a frail weakling before. No one had taken one look at her and decided she could pull her own weight. Bucky had given her that, and it caused a small smile to curl the corners of her mouth.

What she didn't expect was for Bucky to call from the back yard for warm water. Using a rag to protect her hand, she collected the first bucket before stepping out the back door where she found a flagstone patio surrounded by a little garden full of flowers and herbs. Butterflies flitted from petal to petal. The air was infused with the scents of growing things.

The garden was lovely.

“This is lovely,” she repeated aloud.

He grunted in response.

“Look, I know you know the Queen's English, so if you wouldn't mind using your-- what are you doing? Take your hands off of me!”

Bucky's fingers stilled on the knot at the back of her apron. “My intentions should be obvious to a person of the lowest intelligence. The water's getting cold, and you stink.”

She whipped around and slapped at his hands. “I can undress and bathe myself.”

“Yet you was standing around looking at the flowers while the water's getting cold.”

“I thought you were taking a bath!”

“My ma, God rest her soul, would be turning in her grave if she knew I made my wife bathe in my leavings. A man gets dirtier. You ladies are more delicate.” His face turned red. He looked supremely uncomfortable with the bend of their conversation. “Just get in the goddamned bath, woman!”

“Don't use the Lord's name in such foul language, man.”

“I ain't apologizing for cussing in front of a lady I didn't invite into my home.”

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, don't apologize to me, you thick-skulled brute. Apologize to God.”

“Dear God, forgive me for not strangling my mates before they got it into their heads to bring a harridan all the way from Ireland to civilize me.”

Fed up, Stevie planted the palm of her hand against his chest and started pushing. It was like pushing a boulder uphill. No matter the force, there was no budging him. It sent a zing down her spine into her loins. “Get!” she shouted. “I can bathe myself, and I don't need an audience.”

“Try to do a woman a god-- a favor, and she turns into an angry wasp,” he muttered while stomping into the house, leaving Stevie blessedly alone.

Not that she trusted Bucky as far as she could throw him, so she draped her dress and hoop skirt over a clothes line and removed her corset. When she sank into the tepid water, she still wore her bloomers and chemise to protect her privacy.

The water may have been tepid, but it was the best bath she could remember having since leaving Ireland. Making due with slivers of soap and pitchers of water aboard a steamer had left her starved for the pleasure of being surrounded by water. She lathered a scrap of cloth to wash beneath her underthings, paying careful attention to her most sensitive bits. Experience told her nothing good came from hurrying through her ablutions.

It was still the fastest bath she'd ever taken. What with a door she couldn't lock and nothing more than nature's bounty protecting her from prying eyes. Blessed Virgin Mary, Bucky seemed to possess at least some manners. He didn't try peeking through the back windows. Neither did he open the door unannounced. His footsteps approaching the back door were loud enough to serve as a warning.

“You want me to rinse you?” he shouted from inside.

“I can manage.”

And she could have. Up until the point Winter came tearing around the side of the house barking up a flurry and nearly jumped in the bathwater with her. She shrieked. Winter yapped and spun in circles. Bucky opened the back door to step onto the flagstones. And praise Jesus Stevie had insisted on bathing while wearing her underthings.

“Winter, bad!” He snatched the dog by the collar to drag the dog away.

Stevie sat there, drenched with suds, hair in front of her face, unable to see, and hands braced on the sides of the tin tub. She'd probably need another bath after being accosted by Bucky's wild beast.

“Now you want me to rinse you?”

She nodded.

Given their tumultuous relationship, she expected to have a bucket of fire-heated water dumped over her head. That. Was not what happened. He pushed clumps of blond hair from her face, tipped her head back, and poured water while running thick fingers through her hair, careful not to allow the suds to sting her eyes. It stunned her into silence.

He broke that silence a few moments later by asking, “Why you washing in your underthings?”

She scrambled to come up with a believable answer but fell short.

“You don't think much o' me, Miss Connolly. I don't know what kind of men you been around, but I ain't that kind of man. 'M not going to touch you 'less you ask me to.”

“But I'm your wife. You're entitled to--”

A bark of laughter escaped him. “You think I want to put my cock in a cold fish?”

That earned him a glare despite how gently he cleaned behind her ears.

Something akin to an exasperated sigh escaped him, and he clarified, “If I'm wanting to tup a lady, it's better if she be willing, you know. Ain't no good if she's not enjoying herself, too.”

“Other men--”

“I don't give a shite about other men.”

She looked at him for longer than necessary. Surprised. Uncertain. More than a little relieved. Finally, she accepted him at his word and took the hand he offered to step out of the tub where he had a big square of cloth waiting to wrap her up so she could get dry and warm.

Later, after Bucky took his own bath without wearing his underthings, she felt less conflicted about rinsing him with the second pail of hot water. And if she looked at the muscular length and breadth of her husband, maybe it was because her mum didn't teach her as many manners as she could have.

*

Contrary to popular belief, she could cook things aside from potatoes. In fact, she was quite capable of wringing a chicken's neck, plucking its feathers, and cleaning it up for supper. The feathers went into a sack to be washed and used in other household needs. Said chicken hadn't been laying according to Bucky, and an animal who couldn't produce for the household couldn't be fed. It was a fact of life.

The pot on the stove bubbled away. She dried her hands on her apron and padded through to the front room to answer the knock on the door, expecting one of Bucky's cohorts. Their guest was not one of Bucky's cohorts. In point of fact, their guest wasn't anyone she'd seen before. Garbed in a fashionable dress in black and red, the woman proved a picture of modernity. From the way her red hair swept up into a chignon to the prim, lace gloves on her hands. She carried a basket on the crook of her elbow.

“I'm sorry, but Mister Barnes is out with the flock today,” Stevie said.

“That would be helpful information were I here to see Mister Barnes. I am not.”

“No?”

“Natasha Romanoff-Pierce,” she introduced herself while holding out a delicate hand.

“Stevie Barnes.”

Natasha passed her the basket, and Stevie peeked inside to spy scones and cookies decorated with vibrant icing. Because that's what neighbors do, she presumed before stepping aside to invite her guest inside. There was something else a host was supposed to do...

“Tea!” she cried. “Would you like some tea? Please, sit.” Stevie rushed around her guest to clean off the Chesterfield from the day's mending.

“Please,” Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce responded.

Stevie already had the kettle on, but there was nothing in Bucky's house that one might call a tea service, just chipped mugs. No saucers. No creamer jugs. Nothing so fine as to serve someone as elegant as the woman sitting in the parlor.

Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce had removed her lace gloves by the time Stevie returned with two mugs of tea and a small bowl of cream and a jar of sugar.

“Sorry. I haven't been here long enough to sort out the china, and you know how men are. They'll drink out of a dog bowl if it's convenient.” That. Was probably not the best thing she could have said in front of a fine lady.

A tiny smile tilted her guest's lips in spite of the vulgar subject. “I wouldn't know. Mr. Pierce is the epitome of social class, but I'm sure Mr. Barnes will cave to your civilizing touch soon.”

Stevie perched on the edge of a chair and took up her own mug of tea to hold the warmth between her hands. Her circulation wasn't up to snuff, so her hands and feet were always freezing no matter how many layers she clothed herself in.

“What brings you by, Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce.”

“Oh please. Do call me Natasha.”

“Natasha,” she corrected herself.

“One must meet one's neighbors,” Natasha commented. “One never knows when one might need a cup of sugar or an extra hand doing the washing.”

Stevie couldn't help but notice that Natasha's hands didn't look like they'd done a load of washing a day in her life. Her skin was soft and creamy, so very unlike Stevie's rough, reddened hands. She also got the impression Natasha wasn't really here on a social call.

“Do you need to borrow a cup of sugar?”

A bark of laughter escaped Natasha. “Either Mr. Barnes doesn't deserve you or you are the best thing that could have happened to him. You're right, though. I'm not here for sugar. A good neighbor must also help bring their new neighbors up to speed on the local politics.

“You see, my husband owns a large tract of land on which he rears the finest of sheep. The wool his sheep provide is of the best quality. The situation is likewise on Mr. Rumlow's land, which is situated directly to the east of your husband's.”

“So Bucky's land lies between theirs.”

“Correct. Now, Mr. Barnes has spoken with certain other members of our community on forming a co-op to stabilize the price of wool. Unfortunately, that price is much lower than the quality my husband's wool should normally bring in, but with competition from the co-op being what it is, my husband and Mr. Rumlow are losing a considerable amount of money.”

“You're here to prevail upon me to deter Bucky from heading up the co-op so Mr. Pierce isn't being out-competed when it comes to the pricing of his wool.”

On the trip over from Ireland, Stevie had seen a shark with its rows of razor teeth and its ominous fin slicing through the water. She'd been fascinated but hadn't wanted to get an up-close look. Natasha's smile made her feel like she was staring down the maw of a shark.

“I do hope Mr. Barnes appreciates your cleverness.”

“I very much doubt that. In fact, he calls me a shrew.”

Natasha's shawl loosened, and a swath of skin on her neck was revealed. Purple and red bruises mottled her throat. As soon as Stevie's gaze dropped there, Natasha adjusted her shawl to pull it higher.

“Speak with him about the co-op's pricing,” said Natasha, her tone decidedly frigid. “One would hate to see something dramatic come of the situation. You know how men are when handling their own disputes. It would be a shame to see you caught in the middle.”

“You _are_ threatening me,” Stevie said. “Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce, some people grow up with silver spoons in their mouths. Others marry into their silver spoons. Me? I'm just a street rat from Ireland who grew up knocking heads together to keep people from taking what wasn't theirs to take.”

“Interesting.” It was said beneath Natasha's breath, as though she hadn't meant for it to be heard. “Still, fair warning. Mr. Pierce and Mr. Rumlow always get what they want. The question remains how much you and yours suffer in the process.”

Natasha rose and tugged on each pristine lace glove. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Barnes.”

Stevie saw Natasha to the front door where a buggy awaited. The man driving the buggy had a mean look about him with his hooked nose and his lean muscle barely hidden beneath a suit. One could dress up a wild animal, teach it tricks, keep it in a cage, but it was still a wild animal.

After Natasha stepped into the buggy, Stevie called after her, “A man choked me once. Left bruises all up and down my neck. You know what I did to him? I stabbed him in the bollocks with a pair of scissors. Never laid a hand on me again. You ever need to borrow a pair of scissors, you know where to find me, yeah?”

The visit left her shaken for the rest of the afternoon, Natasha's implications of violence plain as her favorite apron. Actually, it was her only apron, but still. Every little noise spooked her, so it wasn't until she heard Winter barking and looked out the window to spy Bucky returning, shepherd's staff in hand, that she calmed.

Bucky walked with an easy sort of grace. His smile looked natural. After leaning the staff against the side of the barn, he crouched to ruffle Winter's mottled fur and receive kisses in return. This was the side of him no one got to see. She suspected if he knew she was watching, his demeanor would change drastically, but he didn't know she was watching.

Heat rushed into her cheeks when he opened his shirt and unbuttoned the top several buttons of his union suit. A dark thatch of hair peeked out that made her face burn hotter. He drew up a bucket of water from the well, dunked the kerchief he wore around his neck into the bucket, and scrubbed his face and neck. Water sluiced down his union suit, making the fabric cling to his muscular physique.

It was too much. Stevie yanked the curtain closed and used a cloth to fan herself. She daren't lift her skirts and stroke the quivering flesh between her legs, not with him standing in the front yard. Only sweet Jesus knew when he might take a hankering to come inside, but the temptation was there.

Good thing she ignored it, too, because the front door scuffed open, and the sound of his heavy boots clomped through into the kitchen. He came to stand behind her. The smell of his sweat and dirt and sheep clung to him. It wasn't an unpleasant combination.

“Smells good,” he said.

“'S Not ready yet. You wash your hands?”

Rather than answering, he held them out for inspection. They were clean as could be expected.

“Set the table. Did you know if you kept bees, I could make honey mead. Save you from having to buy beer from the brewer.” In Ireland, beer was safer to drink than water, so it was a fact of life that she'd learned how to brew her own.

“I'll ask Mr. Cage next time I'm in town about making boxes and getting a queen.”

They worked around each other as she finished supper and he went about setting the table. Chicken stew and dumplings. And she was especially proud of how fluffy the dumplings had turned out. They sat down to eat without a single cross word between them.

It was only later, when she was cleaning up and he was sitting down with a pipe that she realized the implication of her request for bees. A hive would take time to come to maturity. Brewing meant a long term commitment. For all the world, it sounded like she was planning a future with Bucky.

Later, she sat down with some mending on the Chesterfield and said, “We had a visitor today.”

“Which one of those rats showed their faces here after what they did to us?”

And they were back to that again. Just when she thought Mr. Barnes possessed at least one pleasant bone in his body. He was a decent husband until he opened his mouth.

“Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce stopped by with some scones and cookies.”

That certainly got his attention. He looked up from a book in his lap to make eye contact.

“She had a few things to say woman to woman about the state of wool prices in the colony and your affect on them.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“Of course not.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll take care of Pierce and his harpy.”

She pricked her finger and winced, sucking a droplet of blood from the tip. She spoke around the digit when she said, “You shouldn't speak so unkindly about a woman whose husband can't control his fists and who he uses them on.”

“You don't know Natasha Romanoff-Pierce.”

“I know what it's like to deal with rough hands and a mean spirit,” she said without looking up from repairing a seam in one of his shirts.

Papers rustled. Bucky sat forward. One of his large hands covered hers. The contact made her freeze and glance up into startling blue eyes.

“No one's gonna hurt you again, you hear? Any man puts his hand on you before or after our annulment, and you come straight to me. Understand?”

Pressure squeezed her chest, tightening as she realized it was one of the few times he'd touched her without an expressed purpose. The touch was for comfort, nothing more. No one had comforted her since her mother had passed, so some small seed of affection took root.


	5. She Loves Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Description of a human cadaver on display. It was common practice in Victorian times to prepare cadavers for public display and in the use of medical studies.

A month after Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce's visit, Bucky hitched up the buckboard for a trip into town. He gave no inclination of inviting her along, but after so many weeks spent isolated, she wasn't being left behind. Without asking permission, she garbed herself in her best dress, put on a simple, straw bonnet, and hefted herself into the passenger seat.

He returned from the barn carrying a wooden box full of tools and stopped dead, mouth opening and closing, expression uncertain.

“Stop with the mouth. You look like a fish out of water.”

He said nothing before stowing his box of tools and climbing into the driver's side where he took up the reins. A quick flick had Chomper and Stomper lurching into motion. Tack jangled. Wheels clattered over soil baked hard by the summer sun. But the occupants remained silent for some time.

They passed stretches of wild land, open fields packed thick with vegetation and dense copses of trees before nearing the outer reaches of town. The land became manicured. Sheep dotted the fields. Occasionally, they passed men and women out working on the land, and Bucky returned their greetings as they trundled past.

It wasn't until they neared the town proper that he spoke, “Church tribunal'll be in session in Christchurch next month.” Beat. “If we wanted to go ahead with the annulment.”

“Why are you saying 'if?'”

“'If's' a pretty self-explanatory word, Stevie.”

The sound of her name rolling off his tongue sent shivers down her spine. He didn't use it often, making those times when he did feel more special. Which was exactly why she needed the annulment to go through as quickly as possible.

“That's the plan, isn't it?”

He paused. Then shrugged. “S'ppose so.”

But the way he said it made her think there was something uncertain about their previous plan. Maybe he'd gotten used to having her around. Maybe he liked having a cook and someone to clean and mend his clothes. He surely hadn't made anything of his marital rights to her body, so what if...? 

Could be he was one of those men who couldn't perform. Could also be he wasn't even interested in women. Whatever the reason, he'd left her alone for more than a month. Long enough she felt comfortable enough to actually sleep in the same bed. They'd never woken up snuggling.

So what if she allowed the marriage to continue? A well-kept home. Regular meals. It couldn't be argued that she didn't contribute to the household. The vegetable garden looked smashing, the chickens and geese were always fed, and there were always hot meals on the table. So what if...?

She didn't realize the passage of time until the buckboard lurched to a stop outside Mr. Jones' mercantile. Bucky retrieved some bills from a note case in the inner pocket of his jacket and pressed them into her hand.

“Get whatever we need for the house. I'll be 'round the bend at the Norseman's.”

“The what?”

“Blacksmith's shop. Got some tools need sharpening, and Stomper needs his shoes changed. Again.” 

As though sensing he was being talked about, Stomper glanced back and snorted. He gave his head a toss, gun-metal gray mane flicking wildly. A feathered hoof struck the packed dirt.

Stevie scrambled down from the buckboard and watched man and beasts pull away to head down the street. Foot traffic was heavy, so she soon attracted attention for standing around like a fool and made her way inside the mercantile. The place was packed. Women gathered around a table filled with bolts of fabric, their high voices a-twitter as they gossiped.

She made herself as small as possible to squeeze through a couple of men haggling with Mr. Jones over the price of snuff. Her list was small. She wasn't used to having things like sugar or spices to cook with and made do with whatever dried herbs were left over from last season. So she passed up the spices section in favor of the preserves. Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a spot of tea with apricot preserves.

So busy perusing the selection was she that she didn't notice the other customer until they'd bumped into one another. The woman was tall with red hair artfully styled beneath an elaborate bonnet, her dress fashionable without being flashy.

“Sorry,” Stevie was quick to say.

“You're Mr. Barnes' new wife,” the woman responded. 

“Aye, and what about yourself?”

“Mrs. Stark,” she introduced herself, “Pepper Potts-Stark to be more precise. We've looked forward to meeting you since hearing of your arrival. I don't mean 'we' as in the royal 'we.' I'm head of the McKenzie chapter of Women's Suffrage. We're campaigning for the enfranchisement of all women of New Zealand, so I'd like to extend an invitation to one of our meetings.”

“Sorry. I don't know that word. Enfranchisement?”

A moment skirting too close to pity passed across Mrs. Stark's expression. “If we're successful, we would secure the right to vote for all women and allow women to hold governmental positions. Representation in Parliament is important if we want our issues addressed.”

“Sorry. I don't know much about that sort of thing.”

“Then you should come to one of our meetings. This may sound indelicate, and I apologize if it causes offense, but can you read?”

“Some. Mama was after teaching me my letters when she passed.”

“Next Tuesday at five in the evening, I'll pick you up from Nowhere myself. We meet at my house bi-weekly. Please don't worry about standing out. Many women from the community attend.”

Getting to know her neighbors couldn't hurt, right? Having an evening away from home, away from Bucky and the tangle of emotions he'd wound her up in sounded like Heaven, so she readily agreed, and they parted company, with Mrs. Stark hurrying toward the counter to have her orders filled.

Stevie took her time, as she had no way of knowing how long Bucky would be at the blacksmith's shop. When Mr. Jones had a moment, he filled her basket with a sack of flour, oats, apricot preserves, and coffee. Bucky wasn't fit for public viewing until he'd had his morning coffee. She also purchased herself some tea. Because she wasn't fit for public viewing without her morning tea.

Finished shopping, she made her way outside and sat on a bench along the wooden front porch to await her husband. People of all sorts passed by. Even some of Maori descent, who referred to their white counterparts as Pākehā. She was fascinated and maybe even a little intimidated by the tattoos covering their faces, and one woman stared her down when Stevie looked too long. She ducked her head and apologized under her breath.

So she didn't realize who was speaking or what they were talking about until she heard Bucky's name mentioned and glanced up to see Mr. Pierce and a lean, wolfish sort of man she'd never met before.

“Barnes' wife didn't seem receptive to my wife's particular charms, so we'll find no help with her gentle influence,” said Mr. Pierce.

“Can't run a sheep farm without water's what I say.” The wolfish man spat a plug of dark juice. “That river that waters Barnes' sheep? Runs right through my property. Be shame if I built a dam. Maybe rerouted the river. Cut off his supply of water. Sheep start dying. The Co-op loses its leader.”

“Oh Brock, you are the devilish sort.”

“There's a reason you come to me when you don't want to get your hands dirty, Mr. Pierce.”

A sharp whistle startled her, and she glanced up to find Bucky sitting atop the buckboard, one foot braced against the sash. He jerked his head toward the wagon.

Stevie deposited her basket of things in the back and climbed up. She didn't mention overhearing Pierce and Brock until they were outside the town's boundaries, at which point, she repeated the conversation. He took the news surprisingly well.

“'S not something you should be worrying about. Leave those two to me.”

“Don't worry about it? You after getting your head smacked? It's my home too.”

“Until next month when the annulment goes through.”

Either she was going fanciful or there was something bitter about the way he said it. The reminder shut the conversation down for the remainder of the trip home.

Winter greeted them by barking and turning circles in the front yard. The antics almost pulled a smile to her face. Almost. She hopped down, took up her basket, and disappeared into the house to change from her best things into working garments to get started on supper.

They didn't say anything for the rest of the evening.

*

“I'm after going to my meeting,” Stevie said while pulling on a pair of gloves after pinning her bonnet in place, “but supper's on the stove. All you have to do is dish it for yourself.”

“What meeting's this, now?”

“Mrs. Stark invited me to her Women's Suffrage meeting. She'll be picking me up shortly.”

“Why the shite you wanna go to something like that?”

“'Cause women deserve the right to vote and represent themselves and their issues in Parliament.”

“You're saying I can't take care of me own wife? Besides, what you wanna be getting involved with politics for? It's a mess of rich folk sitting high and mighty wearing their silly powdered wigs thinking they're bigger than their britches.”

“Wanting to vote has nothing to do with whether or not-- You shouldn't be after having to take care of me. I should be after taking care of myself.”

“But that's what you're saying. You're saying you don't trust me to look after your needs. What? You think I'm not man enough to take care of you? You saying you want protection from me?”

She saw something mean in his expression that set her skin to crawling, and she backed up against the door, hand searching for the latch. Out of the blue, she remembered Johann Schmidt. The way his breath smelled as it wafted against her skin. How hard it had been squeezing air into her lungs. His cold hands clawing at her throat.

And she was wheezing and hunched over, unable to get a real breath past constricted lungs. Her vision darkened. Panic made breathing even harder. She was going to die. Her lungs would never start working again, and she would die.

Then came a warm palm against her back and a gentle arm around her waist, helping her to the Chesterfield where she slumped.

“I'm going to loosen your corset, darlin',” Bucky crooned. “Just keep breathing for me. Nice and slow.”

It entered her mind to protest, but she didn't have the wind or the will to fight the agile fingers opening the laces on the back of her dress. He reached inside to tug at the corset's lacing until the pressure around her rib cage eased.

Relief came with a gust of cool air hissing into her lungs. She could breathe again so long as she did it slowly. Her hands shook when she reached for one of his to clasp onto something solid and warm. He was always so warm, even when her own hands and feet were constantly chilled.

“Just like that, sweetheart. Shite, your hands are so cold.” He chafed her hands between his own. “Didn't mean to frighten you. God's balls, I'd never hurt you, darlin'.”

“Don't be after using the Lord's name like that, Buck.”

He chuckled. “Figures the first thing you say after not being able to breathe is nagging me.”

She huffed.

They looked at each other.

Their lips touched.

Having the warmth of his lips against hers was electric, so much so she gasped upon feeling the dampness of his tongue against the seam of her lips. Said tongue darted inside. Fleetingly. A butterfly alighting upon a petal.

Jangling from an approaching carriage broke the moment of enchantment and made Bucky jerk back so fast he nearly slipped off the Chesterfield. He stumbled to his feet to put some distance between them and said, “Have a good time at your meeting.”

She did not follow him into the bedroom. She only touched her fingertips to her lips and remembered the ghost of his touch and how it spread warmth through her entire body. The gentleness with which he'd touched her lingered even longer than the memory of his kiss.

Someone knocked at the door.

Stevie rushed through doing up her corset and her dress before answering it to find a man standing outside with fist raised to knock again. Behind him in their yard sat an elegant covered carriage containing Mrs. Stark.

“Mrs. Barnes, Happy Hogan. I'm the Starks' driver. Shall we?”

Only Mr. Cadwallader had ever helped her into a carriage before Happy did. She wasn't sure how she felt about it. She liked that Bucky never put his hands on her the way Happy did, the way he didn't presume she needed help. On the other hand, it made her feel like a real lady.

Mrs. Stark took charge of the conversation during the trip to the Starks' home. They talked of everything and nothing. About Mr. Pierce's influence with Parliament. About Mr. Stark's firm which was founded on the invention of new and improved technology but was currently on a mission to provide cheap electricity to the whole of Mackenzie.

She was surprised to learn that Mrs. Stark ran the business while Mr. Stark concentrated on inventing. A woman running a successful business wasn't entirely unheard of. Even women in Ireland owned shops here and there, but for a woman to run such a successful company seemed unusual. Hopeful, even. If Mrs. Stark could, so could others. Right? So could she.

The Starks' land was manicured, its driveway long and bordered on either side by tall trees. But the house. The house was straight off an advertisement from England: tall, made of gray stone, and stately. Stevie had never seen the like before and felt small in comparison to the wealth on full display.

She paused after being handed down from the carriage by Mr. Hogan to crane her neck back. And back. And back again. The imposing edifice loomed like the golem one Jewish co-worker at the laundry factory had spoken about with terror in her voice. Surely it could swallow her up.

A prompting from Mrs. Stark got her moving, though, and she followed her hostess up a set of grand stairs and into the foyer with its marble floors and exquisite chandelier. The butler, who introduced himself as Mr. Jarvis, took Stevie's jacket, hat, and gloves, before they moved through the house to what appeared to be a lady's parlor.

Pink and gold wallpaper covered the walls. Chairs covered in expensive upholstery splayed around a table laden with tea trays and cutlery. Several women already sat chatting while having their tea and cakes, and they all glanced up to welcome Pepper.

“Allow me to present our newest member, Mrs. Stevie Barnes.”

Pepper introduced everyone: Miss Jennifer Walters (proprietress of the only library in Mackenzie), Miss Emma Frost (owner of a successful tavern), and Mrs. Jean Summers (headmistress of a small finishing school in Christchurch).

Everyone greeted her with surprising warmth when she took a seat at the table. Mr. Jarvis poured a cup of tea, and Mrs. Summers placed an airy piece of cake on her plate. They looked ready to get started, but the door opened to admit one final member to the meeting.

She wore black with a high collar and red accents. Her hair was hidden beneath a hat and her face behind the a veil, so Stevie didn't recognize Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce until after she'd unpinned her get-up and taken a seat across from her at the table.

Both women glared.

Or rather, Stevie glared.

Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce stared back with a frigid glance.

“Natasha, Stevie? Do you know one another?” asked Miss Frost. “There is, I believe, a certain tension that gusted in along with the wind.”

“We've met,” said Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce.

“Briefly.”

“Though it's always lovely to see you, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Please, Stevie.”

“Then, I insist you call me Natasha.”

“Natasha,” Stevie acknowledged while watching Natasha pull the neckline of her gown higher to cover move vivid bruising. Any animosity she'd felt went right out the window. She couldn't hold a grudge against a woman whose cooperation was gained through abuse. The Good Lord knew she was acquainted with women being pushed around and beaten into cooperation.

The meeting itself was enlightening, though Stevie didn't have much to say. 

Miss Walters, a single woman who'd traveled to New Zealand after the death of her much-beloved cousin in a laboratory experiment, desperately needed financing to keep her doors open. Not only money but security. Christian leaders had discovered her anatomy, science, and occult books and called them lewd, enough so she'd been forced to call the commissioner to prevent a mob of church-goers from burning all the books inside her collection.

“I managed to save them because Mr. Phillips is a fair commissioner who protects the rights of individuals, but you should have seen the priest. He turned apoplectic when he noticed my encyclopedia of human deformities. The things that came out of that man's mouth made my blood boil.”

Stevie settled back in her chair and clasped both hands over her lap because she had no doubt she was listed under one of those deformities. The ease with which Miss Walters called people like her deformed was a bile she'd swallowed most of her life. Something she couldn't escape.

Neither could she escape the memories of doctors who'd discovered her secret and locked her up in an asylum for several months. It was only through strange luck that she'd escaped before they could perform the operation that would have removed her supposedly unwanted parts. Certainly, no one had listened to her scream that they were her parts, and she wanted to remain whole.

She didn't realize someone addressed her until the table fell silent and gazes were upon her, causing her skin to prickle with awareness. “Sorry. I drifted for a moment.”

“We asked your opinion on bridging the gap between church doctrine and science,” supplied Mrs. Summers, looking prim in her high collar and fine silks.

“Don't know much about science, but seems to me like observing things in nature, learning husbandry and agriculture and figuring out solutions to problems that affect real people seems a sight more important than going inside a big, block building and getting on your knees.

“Nobody got anywhere good by burning books. Seems to me like a person's faith should help them decide what information's right for them and what's not.”

Pepper nodded.

And Stevie went back to listening to her heart pound at the idea of slipping into Miss Walter's library and possibly looking at some of her books. Her letters might not be all that good, but she knew enough to muddle her way through basic transactions.

So that's what she did come the following week after tagging along with Bucky into town. He had a co-op meeting at the town hall, and since she knew fuck all about wool or the pricing of said commodity, she slipped away to a small building clutched between a milliner and a tobacconist. The place was tiny, narrow enough Stevie felt like she could reach either wall if she stretched her hands hard enough, but she couldn't, and she didn't try because the place was packed full of books.

She stepped in a circle to take the place in. She'd never seen so many books in all her life.

“Mrs. Barnes, this is an unexpected surprise,” Miss Walters called upon stepping out of a back room.

“This is quite the place.”

“It's small, but it's home.”

“Small? You have so many books.”

“My cousin, God rest his soul, had thrice as many in the Banner library before he died. He donated most of his collection to Oxford's sciences department following his death, but it would have made this library look miniscule.”

“Sorry. I don't know that word. Miniscule.”

“Tiny,” Miss Walters said. “Did you enjoy the meeting?”

“Aye.”

“We hope to see you again sometime.”

“I rather think I'd like to get to know all of you better. Aside from my husband's acquaintances, I haven't had the chance to make acquaintances of my own.”

“Well, you just keep attending our events, and you'll have more of us than you know what do with. Now, were you looking for something in particular?”

“Oh, I just popped in for a visit. No butter and egg money yet.”

“There's no charge for checking out a book, Mrs. Barnes.”

“No charge?”

“That's what libraries are for, to allow people who might otherwise lack access to information the chance to learn and grow. Tell you what. If you find something you're interested in, you bring it up here, and we'll fill out a card. Then, when you're done with the book, you bring it back.”

Stevie felt like her world expanded by leaps and bounds. Maybe it really had. She walked along the walls looking at titles and brushing fingers over worn spines while Miss Walters puttered around re-shelving books or opening crates filled with tissue paper and brand new editions.

Hell, she wasn't even sure where to start.

Turned out, she started with a volume on beekeeping. If she wanted to start brewing, she would need as much information on caring for colonies as possible. Then there was a book on brewing. She took down a book on gardening that might help her get the vegetables out back in good order.

Eventually, her meandering took her to the back which was curtained off from the main library. Jars littered the shelves. Jars of things in chemicals. A two-headed piglet. A kitten fetus with only one eye. In the center, a human child that appeared more statue than corpse, its skin darkened with age and its vessels distended with a red, waxy resin to showcase what the plaque called the circulatory system.

She pressed a hand against her mouth. Fascination and horror wriggled through her guts at the same time, and she drew closer for a better look. The display was macabre. Part of her understood how the church could be revolted by what appeared at first to be the careless display of someone's body.

She very nearly ran from the library but took a deep breath instead. So many doctors likely learned about disease from the cadaver, and if scientists couldn't learn, they would never improve the human condition. That knowledge kept her rooted to the spot, kept her staring at the young face with its glass eyes and brown skin.

“Finding everything you need?” called Miss Walters.

Stevie jumped nearly out of her skin but called back in the affirmative.

Given her heightened state of emotion, she might have missed it had the book not been on a shelf right next to the human cadaver. There it was, the object of her curiosity, horror, and damnation. The cover was plain with gold writing: Oxford's Encyclopedia of Human Deformity. Beside it sat another: Damnation: The Rise of Human Deformity.

Terror made her want to leave them behind. Curiosity begged the other. And maybe. Maybe a part of her believed the priests and the doctors at the asylum and wanted someone to help her accept the bad parts so she could go before God with an open heart and ask forgiveness for whatever she'd done wrong to make her the way she was.

She grabbed both books, stuffing them in between the other books she'd collected and hurried back to the counter to check them out from Miss Walters. Miss Walters didn't comment on them, but Stevie still felt like someone could see a sign hanging over her head.

Paranoia followed her to City Hall where angry shouts spilled out from inside. She perched on a bench beneath the awning, her smile tentative when she met the glance of another wife waiting nearby. Because women had no place inside City Hall. More importantly, wives had no standing besides that granted to them by their husbands.

The door opened.

“The almanac calls for an especially dry season,” Mr Pierce said. “I'm simply offering to buy out any shepherds who find themselves on the brink of debt. There's no harm in that, Mr. Barnes.”

“Except the harm where you buy up land and contracts and create a monopoly that will prevent us smaller outfits from competing with your prices,” Bucky retorted.

“If you can't compete...” Mr. Pierce allowed the comment to trail away.

“Competition is healthy for the economy,” said another man whom Stevie had never met before.

“Not being hauled off to debtors prison is healthy for any man. Think of your wives. What will happen to them when your loans are called due and Commissioner Phillips comes for you? They'll be left destitute and living in the streets.”

“Look,” Bucky interrupted, “I ain't gonna hold it against any of you if you wanna take Pierce's offer. Not everybody in this room's lucky as me. I got a good outfit, my loans paid off, and a good wife. So if you think Pierce's offer is the only way you'll survive, that's okay. But don't let him bully you into giving up your outfits just 'cause of his fancy suits and his open pocketbook.”

Heat rose in Stevie's cheeks. He had a good wife. Bucky thought she was a good wife even though they hadn't consummated the marriage, even though she was skittish and unwilling to trust. Her heart leaped into palpitations, and she missed the remainder of the argument.

In fact, the world grayed out until a hand touched her shoulder. Then, she glanced up to find Bucky standing beside her. The smile he wore brought out the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“You ready to go home, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please.”


	6. She Loves Him Not

Breakfast was on the table, but Bucky was nowhere to be found, an unusual occurrence given his never-ending appetite. Stevie stepped out on the front porch and called for him. No response. She made the trip out to the barn and found the horses had been let out to pasture and the geese were nowhere in site. They kept two pigs, one suckling a brood of piglets, and a few goats for the milk. Pigs and goats were present.

Mystified as to her husband's location, she ventured farther afield, following the sound of Winter's barking. It led her to the river where Bucky crouched. Even a city girl like her could tell the difference between the water level from last week, and a cold feeling spread through her body.

“Mister Rumlow and Mister Pierce are following through with their threats, aren't they?”

Bucky didn't turn, didn't flinch, didn't do anything, but his voice was grim when he responded, “Looks that way. We got enough fresh water in the well for us and some of the barn animals, but the sheep need more than that.”

“They're going to die unless we find another way of getting water.”

“I ain't gonna let that happen, sweetheart,” he said while clenching his scarred fists.

Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, Barnes was after giving her heart palpitations because she knew then what his intended methods were. And while she agreed that Misters Rumlow and Pierce had a punch or two coming, she just knew this would make trouble for her.

“Well, you can't be after knocking their brains together on an empty stomach. Come back to the house for breakfast first.”

That finally got his attention, and he turned to look at her with a raised brow and a quirk of his lips.

Of course, she wasn't so keen on Bucky's plan the following day when she had to figure out how to saddle Chomper on her own—the beast lived up to his name by leaving behind a bruise on her thigh the likes of which would be black and blue for weeks—to ride into town to bail him out of jail.

Commissioner Phillips looked unenthusiastic. “Mrs. Barnes, your husband has a pattern of solving problems with his fists. We all hoped your influence would rid of him of his violent ways. I suppose only an act of God can intervene on Mr. Barnes' behalf now. Unless you can produce offspring. Give him a reason to come home at night rather than drink to excess.”

“How did my husband's temper become my problem?” She shook her head and held up both hands. “No, that's not even the issue. Maybe if some people weren't conspiring to kill my husband's business by cutting off our access to water, he wouldn't need to resort to violence. How about you investigate that, Commissioner? Instead of arresting a man for protecting his livelihood.”

At that point, Mr. Pierce emerged from the back with an arm around Mr. Rumlow's waist. Mr. Rumlow looked like he'd gone ten rounds of fisticuffs with a giant. Both eyes were black and swollen. His nose was a wreck, and his jaw could barely open. The men glanced in her direction. She was pretty sure the only reason Mr. Rumlow didn't lunge was because Mr. Pierce had a firm hold on him.

“My point stands, Commissioner,” she continued. Shrewd, she leaned closer, eyes narrowing, and said, “Unless of course you have a reason for looking the other way.”

The only reason she didn't join Bucky in a jail cell after a comment like that was the intervention of Peggy Carter, who turned out to be Commissioner Phillips' senior sergeant. A female senior sergeant was unheard of in Ireland, so Stevie didn't know what to make of the situation. She stammered an introduction.

“Don't mind this one. He wouldn't really throw you in jail for libel. I am afraid, however, that we have substantial evidence that Mr. Barnes started the fight with Mr. Rumlow. There will have to be a hearing, and Mr. Barnes will need to stay in jail until the hearing date.”

“And Mr. Rumlow and Mr. Pierce conspiring to create a monopoly by killing off Bucky's flock?”

“We'll have someone look into your accusations.”

Stevie had too much pride to ask what she was supposed to do in the meantime. There were animals to be tended. Sheep needed minding. Goats needed milking. Water needed rationing. Her husband might be sent to prison for an extensive amount of time. She might need to keep the homestead alive and well for a considerable while.

Which was the only reason she visited Mr. Jones in the mercantile and sent a letter to Mr. Cadwallader asking his advice on the matter. She didn't expect either of them to show up three days later. Nor for several other men who referred to themselves as the Howling Commandos to join them. And suddenly her small home was filled to the brim with big, burly men.

They were all pleasant. None of them disturbed her privacy, and they were very informative on the ways of minding sheep and other chores necessary for running the homestead. But they couldn't do anything about the dwindling water supply. They couldn't miraculously remove the dam Mr. Rumlow constructed to divert the water from reaching Bucky's land.

Too soon, the stream ran dry. She walked out in a pair of Bucky's trousers belted tight around her waist with Winter on her heels to find the sheep baaing in distress and the riverbed nothing but thick mud. She sank to her backside and couldn't even find the energy to push Winter away when the dog came to lick at her chin and cheeks.

“Maybe we can cart barrels of water from the spring,” suggested Mr. Jones.

“You know how Bucky feels about crossing the boundary onto tapu lands,” Mr. Cadwallader responded while adjusting the angle of his bowler hat.

Stevie asked, “What spring?”

“There's a spring up in the high country. It's on Bucky's land, so we could technically drive the sheep up there and have a ready source of water.”

“Then what in the fecking Hell are we doing sitting around? We should drive the sheep toward the water before they all die of thirst and the devil's breath be upon them. Sorry.”

Mr. Cadwallader tipped his hat to her. “Ain't as simple as all that, Mrs. Barnes. The spring's located in the middle of a stand of Pōhutukawa trees. They're sacred to the natives here, and Bucky, he likes to keep peace and respect native traditions. So we drive them sheep up to the spring, we'll be trampling on a sacred site, and Bucky'll be right angry.”

“So he would rather his sheep die and he lose his homestead to save trees.”

“Begging your pardon,” Mr. Jones interrupts, “but you're Catholic. It would be like moving a herd of cattle into your cathedral.”

Put that way, she could understand Bucky's reluctance. It still hurt, knowing there was a solution but unable to act upon it. Frustrated, she stood with both hands on her hips. A few moments passed before she became aware she was mimicking Mr. Jones' posture. And why shouldn't she, she thought. Standing in a particular manner didn't require fully fledged male genitalia.

“How far away is the spring?” she asked.

“'Bout three miles northwest of here.”

“Then this is what we're going to do.”

*

Dressed in ill-fitting trousers with pant legs tucked into boots, Stevie rode at the head of a line of horses. All the Howling Commandos had come out with as many horses and barrels as they could acquire. Even the elusive Misters Dernier and Falsworth showed up.

Dernier, who insisted she call him Jacques, kept her laughing the whole way to the high country, but she steered clear of Mr. Falsworth. That high English accent set her on edge. Though she tried not to judge people based on their nationality or skin color, she couldn't help feeling resentment bubbling up her throat. The English had stolen part of her country. They lived in grand houses while the Irish poor starved to death in the streets.

Jacques touched her elbow. She jerked away without realizing but was quick to apologize, and if he made anything of her reaction, he didn't say. He simply pointed to the horizon where trees sprouted from the earth, their great domes covered with dense foliage.

He said in his heavy, French accent, “The only Pōhutukawa stand on the South Island.”

That didn't mean anything to her until they got closer, until she got a better look at the dense wood and twisting branches, until they were under the cover of their leaves. Silky hairs covered the underside of the leaves, and while she wanted to touch, she also didn't want to disturb them. They were giants and made her feel small in comparison. This was their land, they screamed. Trespass only in reverence.

“November to January, they grow vibrant, crimson blossoms. We call them the Christmas Trees.”

She understood then. Why Bucky was so reluctant to trample upon their soil. The thought of bringing the sheep through, of allowing them to gobble up the underbrush that protected each sprawling root felt sacrilegious, but they kept moving higher over the verdant terrain. The trees thinned, and the soil turned rocky, and soon, they emerged at the edge of a clear stream being fed by an underground spring.

“Keep going another fifteen miles, and you'll reach Lake Pukaki where you can see Mount Cook and the glaciers, Tasman and Hooker,” interrupted Mr. Cadwallader.

They all dismounted, and Stevie insisted on wading into the spring water to help fill the barrels since she couldn't actually lift the barrels onto the backs of the horses. It was hard, back-breaking work, but none of the men uttered a single complaint. Neither did she.

Each horse carried two barrels. They loaded sixteen barrels and chose to walk on foot so as not to overburden the horses with their added weight. She gritted her teeth, wrung as much water out of her loose pant legs as possible, and strode along tugging Stomper and Chomper behind.

As night fell, temperatures dropped. Her wet clothes did nothing to keep her warm, so she started shivering, the teeth-chattering sort of shiver she couldn't control no matter how hard she tried. She felt weak. She felt useless. She felt two halves of herself struggling for dominion. The part of her that insisted women were the weaker sex and were allowed to be more delicate fought against another part of her identity just beginning to awaken.

Maybe she was supposed to have been born a man. Maybe she was allowed to be brave and strong and take charge and lead a group of men on an expedition to get enough water to keep her sheep alive another week. Or maybe she could be both delicate and strong. Needy and independent.

All she knew was that she felt confused and therefore didn't notice Mr. Falsworth's approach until he draped his jacket over her shoulders. She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn't see you coming, Mr. Falsworth.”

“You must be freezing, Mrs. Barnes.”

“I've been warmer.”

They both chuckled. That startled her, too.

“My estate is in the Timaru District. If it pleases you, I'd like to ask you and Mr. Barnes to supper some night when the situation is less dire. My wife, Bridget, is from Limerick and gets quite homesick. She would treasure a fellow Irishwoman in her life.”

There she went being startled again. The English didn't get on so well with people from Southern Ireland. It wasn't near as bad as the tension between Protestants and Catholics, but the tension was there, and for a man of his station to marry a Catholic lass surprised her.

“I think I could do with having Irish company myself, Mr. Falsworth. Thank you for the invitation. And the jacket.”

That night, she fell into bed, body aching, but pleased with herself and the progress she'd made. The work was hard, especially after the Howling Commands left to tend to their own livelihoods, but she'd made peace with the struggle. It was no different than struggling to survive in Ireland. Except in New Zealand, she had the support of people she was learning to call friends.

Those people included a group of Suffragettes. Pepper continued collecting her for their weekly meeting without mentioning the state of Stevie's cleanliness—she'd given up bathing in favor of using the well water for the animals. None of them mentioned how her clothes became drab and in need of a good wash. Neither did they offer her the use of their facilities, something for which she was grateful, as that would be acknowledging the poor state of affairs.

Her developing cough drew concerned expressions. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and coughed into it, but the cough itself wasn't what worried her. That was the wet rattle in her lungs and the effort breathing took. If there was a doctor in Mackenzie, no one had mentioned him, and even if there were, she didn't have money to pay for his services. So she ignored the cough.

Tension crackled in the atmosphere during a weekly meeting when Mr. Pierce's wife returned from a long absence. No one said a word. They set a place for her at the table and ignored the ugly bruise mottling Natasha's cheek. Stevie couldn't ignore it. Stevie felt rage and resentment boiling away inside. Upon noticing Stevie's interest, Natasha explained it away as clumsiness leading to an unfortunate collision with a cabinet door. Cabinet door, her Irish arse.

During recess that night, Stevie excused herself to use the toilet. The door wasn't locked when she swung it open, so it came as a shock to find Natasha inside. Her legs were spread, her dressed hitched up around her waist, and she was urinating through a hole on the underside of a small penis and underdeveloped bollocks.

They stared are each other.

Silence.

Horror widened Natasha's eyes, horror that swerved into anger, and she shouted, “Get out. Get out!”

“I didn't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were in here.”

“Get out.” Natasha's breathing turned ragged.

So Stevie backed out and pulled the door closed behind her. She turned to rest her back against the door. Clutching her chest did nothing to prevent her heart from slamming against her breastbone. Because there was someone like her living in Mackenzie. Natasha was like her. She wasn't alone. The doctors back in Ireland who'd wanted to institutionalize her, who'd wanted to cut her up, had made her believe people like her were rare. One in a million. But they'd lied. Natasha was like her.

Which was the only reason she followed Natasha from the house once she emerged from the facilities and made for the front door. Stevie caught her arm before she could descend the stairs to the gravel, causing Natasha to whip toward her.

“Let me go,” she snapped.

“Please stay.”

“Because we are suddenly friends?”

“I'd like to be.”

Stevie might be taller, but Natasha's build was solid, so when she shoved Stevie, all Stevie could do was scramble to catch her balance. She landed hard on her hip against the stone steps. A soft yelp escaped. Blood welled on her palm from where she'd tried to catch herself on a decorative twist on the wrought iron railing.

Next thing she knew, Natasha loomed over her, bent at the waste, face etched with fury. She oozed danger. Believing the words that spilled from her mouth was an absolute.

“If you tell anyone, I will kill you.”

Stevie shook her head. “I'm not going to tell anyone.” Then, something occurred to her. “Mr. Pierce knows. That's why you stay with him.”

“My marriage to Mr. Pierce is none of your business.”

Natasha collected the reins to a big, black horse standing idly by a hitching post. She used the mounting block to haul herself side-saddle onto her mount. “Remember my warning.”

Before she could call her back, Natasha wheeled her horse around and both rider and animal disappeared in a trail of dust and the crunch of gravel beneath the shod hooves of the intimidating beast. Stevie was left sprawled on the stairs. Her hip ached. Her palm still bled, and she couldn't stop the sudden flood of tears. Because there was someone else like her in the world.

“Stevie?”

She startled over Pepper's voice.

“Is everything all right?” An observation followed on the heels of the question. “My goodness, you're bleeding. What happened? Let me take you inside and get this cleaned up and dressed.”

“It was an accident. Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce had to leave in a hurry. The horse knocked into me.”

She allowed Pepper to help her from the ground and lead her back inside, too stunned, too numb to keep up with the chatter about being more careful. They cleaned and dressed the scrapes on her palm together, and Pepper allowed Happy to drive her home early with a basket of baked goods from the rest of the Suffragette ladies.

Going home to an empty house, though? It unsettled her. Life in the city was crowded. People were crammed into tenement apartments, sometimes six to one bedroom. Even living on the streets, she'd been surrounded by other homeless people gathered around whatever small fires they could create.

So the dark house felt gloomy, but she was reluctant to invite Winter inside. Winter needed to guard the sheep. Rather, she collected her favorite rabbit from the hutch, a white and tan female Stevie had taken to calling Bun Bun. She removed her dress and corset and curled up in bed with Bun Bun in just her pantaloons and chemise.

That night, she prayed. She thanked God for Natasha Romanoff-Pierce. She thanked God that she wasn't the only one like her, that maybe she could find a friend in Natasha, someone to share the secret that felt like such a burden to carry alone. Maybe Natasha could understand.

*

Bucky's hearing was the following week. Thanks to the generosity of Mr. and Mrs. Stark, a lawyer came down from Christchurch to represent him, and while he was still found guilty of assault—Mr. Rumlow's cheek was broken, and he was having trouble eating—in the first degree, his sentence was reduced due to mitigating factors. He was ordered to pay Mr. Rumlow damages in the amount of fifty dollars and all court costs.

It was a blow to their finances. She could tell from the look on Bucky's face. Once he was released, he found her with his glance and headed straight toward her. She straightened his tie.

“Told you to punch him, Bucky, not break his jaw.”

His lips quirked. He grasped both of her hands and brought her knuckles to his lips.

Mr. Pierce had to ruin it, though. Of course he did. Because he was a black rain cloud that ruined everything. He stopped on his way to the expensive buggy where a pair of matching bay horses awaited. “My offer still stands, Mr. Barnes. You'll get a fair price for your land and flock.”

“Bugger off,” Bucky said.

“Dead sheep have no value. I thought you might be amenable to my offer given the state of your water reserves. My men tell me your lovely wife has been rationing. The poor dear hasn't even had a proper bath in her efforts to keep your homestead afloat.”

“A sacrifice she's happy to make to ensure you don't get your slimy hands on her husband's hard earned property and animals, you awful feckin' gobshite.”

Bucky turned to look at her with rather large, stunned eyes.

“Quit your staring, and let's be after getting home.”

Stevie swept past Mr. Pierce where their humble buckboard awaited. Chomper and Stomper perked up upon her approach. They pulled at their harnesses, but the brake was engaged, preventing them from going far. She stroked their muzzles.

“Won over the loyalty of my faithful horses? Traitors.”

On their way out, they passed Mr. Rumlow being helped into his own transport by a couple of men whose names she hadn't heard. He stepped up, leaving behind his footprint in dirt. It was a peculiar sort of footprint, one that suggested his leg was turned inward abnormally.

Silence followed them for the first half of their journey. She wasn't sure what to say, and he seemed lost in his own thoughts. She pulled the handkerchief free of her left sleeve and coughed into it when the dust irritated her lungs. Everyone complained about the dust, about the drought, about how unusual the weather was for this part of New Zealand.

She finally broke the silence by saying, “There's something I should tell you.”

“What?”

“Our situation isn't as dire as Mr. Pierce believes. The Howling Commands and I have been going up to the high country with horses and bringing down barrels of water from the spring. They told me about your reluctance to trample on sacred ground, but there wasn't any water left in the river. I didn't know what else to do.”

Bucky grimaced and said nothing.

She left him alone with his thoughts until the tension became too thick. 

“Are you terribly upset with me?”

He released a heavy breath. “You didn't go waltzing up there with the herd of sheep did you?”

“No, and I'm glad. Those trees are special.”

“You should see them when they start blooming in November.”

“I didn't think I'd be here in November,” she responded. “Isn't the church tribunal in Christchurch coming in session next week?”

He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins to get the horses to pick up their pace before saying, “Don't suppose we got to have the annulment this month. Suppose you could stick around a while longer. It's not like your company is too much of a burden.”

Her voice turned lighter. “Oh, I see. So you've gotten used me cooking and doing your laundry.”

“Maybe.” He smiled. A brilliant thing that was full of mirth and brought out the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He rarely smiled and had never smiled so fully before.

Her heart skipped a beat. Something in her chest warmed with affection. She dared reach across the distance between them and place her hand over his wrist.

Smile still in place, he turned to look at her before reaching over with his opposite hand and resting it atop hers. The moment was gentle and fleeting, but they had built the first piling of what she longed to be a much stronger bridge.

The calm lasted until they returned home, and she got dinner on the table. Bucky invited Winter in for a couple of hours, secretly passing the dog pieces of meat from the stew that had been on the stove most of the day. Stevie didn't mind. Winter was a good dog and deserved some spoiling.

After dinner, Stevie cleaned up. She used the pump at the sink to take as little water from the well as possible to do up the dishes. She put everything in their rightful place. Her mum had taught her that. _Everything has a place, and everything should be in its place lest you lose your way, Stevie._

“What is this shite?” Bucky, emerging from the bedroom, demanded.

She found him holding one of the books from Miss Walters' library. It wasn't just any book. The gold lettering made her heart sink into her stomach: Oxford's Encyclopedia of Human Deformity. A piece of fabric marked the page she'd been reading last. They showed drawings of sex organs in various configurations, all labeled “hermaphrodite.” One even looked like her. Just seeing the drawing had made her feel less alone.

“Answer me. What is this shite you're reading?”

“It's-- I-- I was curious, and--”

“Get this garbage the fuck out of my house.” His tone was quiet, menacing, his eyes afire with barely-constrained rage. If he added another ember, it would boil over.

Stevie had never been more afraid of him. Lower lip trembling and scared of the strength of a body corded with muscle, she ran out of the house. The door banged shut behind her. And it wasn't just his temper as she fled past the barn and across the field; it was also the dashed hopes that he might come to accept her the way she was. But of course he wouldn't. She was unnatural. A human deformity. Born sinful without a chance for redemption.

In the distance, she heard him calling her name, but she didn't stop. If she stopped, the world might catch up to her. She knew then how Natasha had felt that afternoon when Stevie had barged in on her in the bathroom and learned her secret: Hunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me. Promise I won't leave you hanging long.


	7. Marriage Counseling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Animal death.

Stevie ran until her lungs gave out, until she collapsed into a ditch, heart pounding, breath wheezing through her lungs, body shaking with exhaustion and fear. The way she figured, this was it. Her tombstone would read “Stevie Rogers: died in a ditch somewhere in the Mackenzie basin.”

Hooves plodded through the soft dirt coming from behind her. Fear sparked into terror like dry tinder catching alight, and she held perfectly still. Somehow, she calmed her breathing enough to be silent even when the horse drew near, even when she peeked from beneath her dark shawl to see Bucky atop Stomper passing no more than a yard away from her.

“Stevie!” he shouted into the quiet.

He knew. It was the only reason she could think of for him following her. He knew and wanted to turn her in to the church or to a medical doctor or to take her to the nearest asylum. The thought of going back there made her sick to her stomach. She covered her mouth when bile threatened to spill out.

“Stevie-lass, come on home now. I think we need to talk.”

Talk, her Irish arse.

Tension charged the atmosphere. Stomper danced sideways and pulled at the reins. Moments later, Bucky moved on, still calling her name. But no matter how hoarse he became, she couldn't risk falling for his trap. She had no doubt it was a trap. The anger in his eyes when he'd found the book would haunt her the rest of her days, however long that would be.

An hour passed. Then two. The moon was high when she dared peek out of the ditch to find Bucky nowhere in site. Only then did she feel safe enough to emerge and continue on foot at a much slower pace, one her heart and lungs could keep up with. Well, at least her heart. Her lungs were a different matter. They forced her to stop in order to hack into her shawl until her throat became raw.

She continued on into the morning when she could finally get her bearings. The problem was deciding where to go and how to get there on foot. Christchurch seemed the likeliest candidate. A big city. Thousands of people. She knew how to hide in a city, how to survive on the streets, but it was more than a day's travel on horseback. It could take her weeks on foot.

Following the sun, she set herself to the northeast and walked. Uphill and downhill. Through lush, green fields dotted with sheep and dense copses of trees.

She meandered along a stream that tumbled down from the mountains for most of the evening before exhaustion caught up with her. She dropped onto a flat rock. She scooped water with her hands and drank greedily from the frigid stream. She sat up. Stars danced behind her eyelids. Black spots formed. She fell. And she fell. And she plunged into the water. 

Cold enveloped her. It soaked into her bones like death, like the grave. Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, she was tired. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep, but she didn't want to die without a priest. She didn't want to leave Natasha behind because then Natasha would be alone again.

A hand reached into the water for her. She seized it and pulled herself up. Strong arms hefted her up, and people speaking a strange language brought blankets and other warm things. She looked up into the face of a stranger, a face decorated with intricate tattoos, long hair worn in a topknot.

The woman beside him said something in their native tongue before pushing him away. Then, she crouched to make herself eye level with Stevie. It was the woman from town, the one who had glared her down with some unseen force that had felt physical at the time.

“You're cold and sick,” she said. “We'll warm you and take you home.”

Something about that made her panic. She grabbed the stranger's wrist and exclaimed, “No, I can't go home. Don't take me back there.”

“Barnes is driving himself mad with fear for you.”

“Not for me.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Stubborn woman. You need medicine we don't have to spare, so you're going home where Barnes can give you what you need to survive.”

They didn't give her much of a choice. The woman, who called herself Rui, removed her sodden dress, but when she went to shuck Stevie's pantaloons, Stevie kept hold of them with an iron grasp and kept shaking her head. No. No. No, she could not remove her bloomers. She couldn't see.

Rui huffed, irritated, but didn't push the matter. Instead, she dressed Stevie in a simple, cotton garment of European design and draped around her a long cloak made of what she thought was flax. It was warm inside, warm enough that she didn't fuss over being lifted onto a horse, warm enough that she spiraled into sleep.

*

She awoke feverish.

The voices filling a dark room faded in and out. A priest was there. Latin spilled from his tongue as he read her last rites. A gruff voice interrupted the rites. He was angry. His wife wasn't going to die, he claimed. Then, a softer voice she hadn't heard before.

“Would you all please leave the room?”

“She's my wife.”

“And I'm her physician. Out. Both of you. If I think she needs a priest, I'll call you.”

The door shut. Soft, aged hands peeled back the blanket, causing Stevie to make a noise of denial. She tried hanging onto it, but her fingers lacked the strength, and the doctor tutted about having seen it all in his line of work. Some sarcastic part of her wanted to insist he hadn't seen what was beneath her bloomers. Or maybe he had because when he pulled them down to drape over a chair to dry, he didn't do much more than pause for a breath. Maybe two.

Fear curdled in her stomach. Made her sick. She rolled to the side and gagged, but nothing came up but bile. Her stomach was already empty.

“Don't take me away,” she rasped.

“No one is taking you away. My name is Doctor Erskine.” His accent was German and reminded her of Johann Schmidt and Little Piggie.

More fear pooled through her system. She scrambled up against the headboard, grabbing the blanket on the way to yank it around her chin. “No. I killed you.”

“Mrs. Barnes, you have a high fever. There's every chance you're hallucinating.”

But she wasn't. She couldn't be. He was right there in front of her, his face ghoulish and much redder than the normal person. Thin, skeletal fingers reached for her to tear into her flesh, so she fought against them. She flailed and threw a punch that connected against flesh.

“Mr. Barnes, if you could please join me.”

The door opened. Bucky stepped inside. Callused hands grabbed hold of hers, and no matter how gently they held her wrists, they were still shackles preventing her from fighting for her life.

“You're going to be okay, Stevie-lass. Hush now. I'm right here.”

Her world went black.

*

She woke again drenched in sweat and kicked the blankets aside. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton; everything was muzzy and unreal. Coughs rattled her lungs and drew the attention of the large body sitting in a rocker near the bed.

Bucky rose. He filled a glass with water. He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her head from the pillow, enough so she could sip from the glass. When she was done, he eased her head back down and pulled the blanket back over her.

“Let's keep these on.”

“Too hot.”

“I know, darling, but we can't have you catching another chill.”

“Why?”

He made a questioning noise.

“You hate me. Why am I here?”

“We've had our differences, but I never once hated you.”

“The books.”

“Fuck.” Bucky raked both hands over his face and up into his unkempt hair. “Sweetheart, I got angry over the books because that shite makes people feel ashamed of their differences. I didn't want you feeling ashamed of your differences.”

She opened and closed her mouth, unable to decide what to say or how to say it. It seemed too good to be true, that he hadn't been angry because she was a sinful wretch but because he was afraid for her.

“How did you know I was different?”

“I ain't stupid. You're terrified of me seeing you without your clothes on. You won't even bathe without your bloomers on.”

“You're not going to send me away? To an asylum or a hospital?”

“That what you're worried about, sweetheart?” His touch was tender when he smoothed hair back from her forehead. “Your body's perfect just the way it is because it's got you inside.”

Maybe she was especially vulnerable because she felt like a steaming pile of horse shit. Maybe it was because no one had ever said anything like that to her except her mother. It could be a thousand different reasons when tears leaked from her eyes to roll down her cheeks.

Bucky hushed her by climbing into bed beside her and taking her against his chest. He stole away the tears with his thumb while the other hand smoothed up and down her back. The heat against her lungs felt marvelous and soothed her back to sleep.

*

A week, she was confined to bed. The bedroom grew stuffy and dark, a womb that had gone stale. Dr. Erskine came and went to administer medications. Once a day, she hung her head over a bowl of steaming water perfumed with various herbs, her head covered by a cloth. The steam opened up her airways and allowed her to breathe easier.

The worst was getting up and pacing the bedroom. She wasn't allowed to lay flat for more than eight hours a day to prevent pneumonia from setting in, which would require blood-letting and purging. So she had motivation enough to follow the doctor's orders even when she was so weak she required help. Sometimes it was Bucky. Sometimes it was Mr. Jones. Sometimes it was Pepper or Miss Walters.

The Suffragette ladies stopped by on a regular basis with various casseroles and baked goods. They didn't talk about why Stevie had gone off in the night. Neither did they know about her condition. But they still sat and talked with her. Sometimes they brought along needlework. Mrs. Summers started teaching her the art of embroidery. Stevie did not take to it well, not with her bad vision.

Bucky noticed the problem as she sat in bed squinting at the town's newspaper. A week later, a pair of spectacles arrived in the mail. She slipped them on, and the world came into focus. Her husband's eyes were arresting. She saw lines on his face she hadn't noticed before. For the first time, she understood just how stunning the man she married was.

Startled, she brushed a thumb across the high ridge of his cheekbone to smooth the lines at the corner of his eye. She was even more startled when he turned his face into her palm and kissed it. The moment stretched between them, pregnant with some new thread stretching between them. Their relationship was changing, growing, and she realized there wouldn't be an annulment in Christchurch.

A month passed. Then two. The Howling Commandos continued stopping by on a weekly basis to bring water from the springs. Then the rains came. A deluge battered down on their home, filled up the dry river bed, the well, and every single bucket and barrel they possessed.

The wet weather wasn't good for her lungs, so Dr. Erskine stopped by every few days to check on her, and Bucky insisted on her staying inside by the fire. Every time she stepped out onto the front porch to catch a bit of fresh air, he materialized, sopping wet, to usher her back inside.

“Stevie-lass, how many times I got to tell you to stay in by the fire?”

“My lungs are fine, Bucky. See.” She inhaled deeply without coughing.

“Until Dr. Erskine says it's okay, you're staying warm and dry. That's the end of it.”

“You won't even let me cook supper.”

“I'm perfectly capable of feeding us until you've got your strength back.”

“I've got my strength back!” She wobbled on her feet. “For the most part.”

“So you weren't just breathing heavy and shaking from exertion going to the shitter the other night?” He crossed his arms and jerked his chin toward the outhouse some distance from the main home.

“If you had to wear all these layers, you'd be breathing heavy, too,” she shot back, indicating the dresses and petticoats and pantaloons and chemises, and all the other unnecessary layers women were expected to wear lest they become the center of town gossip.

“Ain't me what's making you wear all those layers, sweetheart. You could be wearing nothing, and it'd be fine by me.”

Her breath caught. It wasn't the shock of his comment; she'd heard much worse on the streets of Ireland. It was the way his eyes traveled down her body that shocked her. Like perhaps he wanted what was beneath all those layers. Like perhaps it turned him on. Whatever the case, it was the first time he'd looked at her like that: with lust and want.

Well, he wasn't getting away with winning an argument by turning it sexual. It was her turn to cross her arms over her chest and glare him down.

Inexplicably, he started laughing. Laughter lines came out on his face. His expression softened. He braced himself with hands on knees and laughed until his shoulders hunched. “'Shit, you're adorable when you're angry with me.”

“Pardon?”

“The way you wrinkle your nose up and your lips purse. It's bloody adorable, Stevie-lass, and I was wondering if maybe it was okay for me to kiss you.”

“Oh.”

He stepped closer. Something charged arched between them as he looked down at her and she looked up. She darted her tongue out to moisten her lips and glanced at his. They looked chapped but plump, and she remembered. She remembered the one other time he'd kissed her.

“May I kiss you?”

Dumbfounded, she nodded.

The first touch of his lips was gentle, just a brief wisp of contact, a butterfly's wings. Then he returned to press their mouths together. Her bottom lip tucked perfectly between his. Shivers ran down her spine. Warmth pooled in her loins. Her cock ached between her legs.

His tongue brushed her mouth.

She gasped, allowing him entrance, and he slipped inside with a gentle stroke that touched her senses like lightning. Somehow, it felt more intimate than it should have, but she'd never been kissed like this before and didn't know what to do with her hands. They felt awkward dangling at her sides.

He solved the problem by lacing their fingers together and pulling one of her arms up around his shoulders. In turn, his arm slipped around her waist. Next thing she knew, they were flush together, his pelvis pressing against her aching cock, and their mouths interlocked.

A moan escaped. The kiss could have gone on forever as far as she was concerned, but Bucky had other intentions. He eased away. His lips were kiss-bruised and wet as he stared into her eyes.

“Why'd you stop?” she croaked.

It made him smile, made him brush their noses together a time or two. “Because your lungs are still weak, and I figured you needed to breathe, sweetheart. We can kiss more later if you want.”

She nodded, a little dumbfounded and a lot excited.

They did kiss again. And again. Kissing fast became one of Stevie's favorite things in the world, but they were also bordering dangerous territory because neither of them had brought up sex. She had the parts to be penetrated but didn't know how he felt about looking at her cock. Despite its underdeveloped size, it might turn him off. So she was afraid to take the next step, and he never pressured her for anything more than what they had.

Peace settled between them, though, now that she wasn't constantly terrified of him finding out her secret and reacting badly. They learned to work together as she regained her strength. He brought her home some trousers and shirts in her size and a pair of sturdy work boots. Sometimes he cooked dinner and she chased the geese back into the barn at night. Sometimes she cooked, and he cleaned up.

And she liked it. She liked the variety and that he wasn't so molded in his masculinity that he was afraid to trade off and perform the tasks a wife usually got stuck with. At least she liked it until she, carrying the shepherd's staff, went out with Winter to bring the sheep in closer to home only to find two of them dead.

Something had slit their bellies open, their intestines strewn behind them as though they'd attempted to drag themselves back to their flock. They hadn't made it far. There was so much blood.

Stevie was sick in the grass.

When she felt able to stand without vomiting again, she sent Winter to round up the rest of the flock. Certain commands had him pacing in each direction to keep the sheep from scattering. The flock respected Winter. Not only was he their shepherd, but he was also their protector. So it didn't take long to bring the flock back to the near pasture.

She burst inside the house. “Two of the sheep were killed,” she said, breathless.

He glanced up from the paper. “Show me.”

They grabbed lanterns from the barn to ward off oncoming dusk and tromped out to the far pasture. Winter wanted to join them, but a command from Bucky left the dog to guard the flock. By the time they arrived, it was full dark.

“Will wolves come for the bodies?”

“There aren't wolves in New Zealand. We don't have any natural predators, at least not until the colony started and Europeans brought them over.”

“So if there aren't any natural predators, then this was done by humans.”

He crouched beside the sheep to inspect the body. “The cut is clean. Made by a sharp knife. It's not the kind of wound you would find from a dog.”

“Rumlow and Pierce?”

His jaw clenched.

“They couldn't thirst us out, so now they've taken to killing off our flock? I'm after hitting them so hard they won't have any teeth left. Fecking pigs.”

“Think you can go hitch up Chomper to the small cart and drive it back here in the dark?”

“Aye. What do you have in mind?”

“No sense wasting the meat. We'll smoke it and put it away for winter.”

By morning, Stevie was exhausted. They sheared both carcasses, hung them to finish bleeding them, and butchered them. Bucky did most of that work, but she spent the time cutting wood to his specifications and starting a fire in the smokehouse.

They got a couple hours of sleep while the meat smoked only for Bucky to rouse her in the early hours to transfer the smoked meat into the cellar where they hung the meat beside what was left over from last winter's stock.

Stevie felt hunted again. The world didn't seem apt to let her be happy.

She brought Bucky a cup of coffee, and they sat on the front porch watching the sky turn from gray to a bright, vibrant blue. The peace belied the bloodshed of the night before.

“He'll keep killing them off until you sell him the homestead or we go bankrupt,” she said after a mouthful of bitter coffee.

“We'll keep them close to home for now. Next month is shearing season. We'll bring in the wool and take it to Christchurch to market. Most of us with smaller holdings get together and make the trip at the same time. It's harder to haggle a cheaper price when faced with a number of farmers at once.”

“When are we going to start fighting back?”

His temper erupted. “What do you expect us to do? You think I don't want to keep punching them in the face? Last time I did, I nearly bankrupted us. It ain't just me I've got to think about anymore.”

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, don't go using me as an excuse to not fight back. I've lived on nothing before. If we lose the homestead, we'll live on nothing together.” 

“You shouldn't have to live on nothing.”

“And it shouldn't rain on weddings. You start running, Bucky, and they never let you stop. You stand up. Push back. Figure out a way to make something break.”

An idea crawled into her brain. She had no intention of threatening to out Natasha to push Pierce into submission. That would be wrong on so many levels, but Natasha and she shared something, and Natasha had very little reason to stay in the marriage when she was being beaten on a daily basis.

Stevie took Bucky's chin in hand and kissed him. “We'll make it. Pierce is powerful. Pierce and Rumlow together are even more so, but we might have an inside road to bringing them down, a crack in their foundation.”

“What are you up to, you devious little fox?”

“I'm after winning a war.”


	8. First Came Marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to declining health, I'm going to give you the rest of the chapters tonight, so make sure you hit that next chapter button if you want to finish the story. This means it won't be edited, but the story will be finished.

Stevie wore her best dress when she knocked on the door of the grand mansion where Pierce lived, feeling small compared to the stone edifice that rose many stories into the bright sky. A basket covered with a checkered cloth hung on her arm, and there was a smile on her face when Rollins opened the door. Shock caused him to fumble over his words.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he acknowledged.

“Is Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce available?”

Her hand strayed toward the basket as Rollins invited her inside and showed her into a salon. It was well-appointed, with chairs and loungers covered in matching upholstery and the walls decorated with fine, delicate wallpaper. A small chandelier hung in the center of the room. Attention went mostly to the dramatic fireplace whose mantle was carved from marble and upon which rested a gilt clock.

Normally, she would feel out of place the way she did in the Stark residence, but her mission disallowed such things as insecurities. Saving the homestead meant she had to be brave, so she settled her basket on the floor beside the chair she perched in, bending to fold a corner of the cloth down to better cover its contents. She just straightened when Natasha entered, the taffeta of her sapphire gown rustling with every movement.

“What an unexpected surprise,” Natasha said. The chill in her voice defied the social niceties of her greeting. Stress lines framed her mouth and the corners of her eyes. “Such a shame my husband isn't home to entertain you himself.”

“My business isn't with your husband.” She reached for the basket.

Natasha stiffened, hands flying to grip the armrests of her chair like she was making to stand, like she was afraid of the contents. And maybe she should be.

From the basket, Stevie pulled not a gun but a book. The Encyclopedia of Human Deformities with its austere cover and controversial contents. She offered Natasha the book with a steady hand.

“We're not alone, Natasha.”

“What is this?” Outrage sharpened Natasha's tone to a razor edge.

“People are after making us feel like we should be beholden to them for hiding our conditions by telling us we're alone, that no one else will have us. They're wrong. We're not alone. You're not alone anymore, Natasha.”

A shrewd glance passed between them. Stevie imagined it was much like an American gunfight written about in newspaper serials and cheap novels: both waiting for the other to make the first move, neither one of them prepared to die.

Natasha's voice lowered, “What are you saying?”

Sighing over being forced to go into detail, she opened the book to a condition labeled _clitoromegaly_ to show her hostess the picture. Then, voice soft, she said, “Me.” Turning the page allowed her to show Natasha a drawing of underdeveloped male genitalia. “You.”

Gasping, Natasha knocked the book from her hand where it thumped against the rug, its pages spread haphazardly. There, it rested while the women continued gazing at one another, Natasha's narrow to shutter away the emotions carving their way through her mind, and Stevie's open. All she could do was hope Natasha trusted her just enough to let her guard down.

“You married him because he threatened to expose you, didn't he?”

Natasha nodded.

“You don't have to stay with him.”

“Where else would go?” she spat.

“Maybe you could come with me. Or maybe you could stop being afraid and lonely. Wouldn't that be nice? Not feeling alone all the time? I felt alone for so long until I met Bucky.”

A crack appeared in Natasha's foundation. “Does he know about you?”

“Yes.”

“He hasn't hit or threatened you?”

“No.”

Hooves clattered over the cobblestones toward the rear of the house, and the sound of voices muffled by the walls filtered inside. Natasha turned rigid seconds before snatching the book up and pushing it back into Stevie's hands. Their voices were weak but recognizable as Mr. Pierce's and Mr. Rumlow's.

“You must go. Quickly.”

Stevie didn't fight as Natasha ushered her out the front door. She stepped into the stirrup and hauled herself up into the saddle, not bothering with riding side-saddle as a lady should.

“He's going to kill you,” Stevie said. “Once he's done amusing himself with you, he'll kill you. Then, he'll kill Bucky and me and our future together. If you ever need an escape, come to us.”

That said, she wheeled Chomper around and nudged him in the flanks. The chestnut gelding took off at a canter as Natasha disappeared back inside the grand prison she called home.

Time to think wasn't in short supply on the ride back from Pierce's. Stevie, she was a brawler. She could pick a fight like any of the boys in the back alleys. Sometimes she even got enough of an upper hand to win. This sneaking around and planting seeds for a revolution wasn't at all her style, but one had to adapt, she presumed, to every situation.

If she couldn't outright challenge Mr. Pierce to a good, old-fashioned duel, then she would have to go about dethroning him in a different way. Although the idea of a duel held enough merit to make her smile. Pistols at dawn? Maybe even rapiers like in days of old?

She bumped into Senior Sergeant Carter on the way home, who sat atop a dun-colored horse with her badge of office pinned in place. Peggy waved her down.

“Bucky's been in town.”

A sinking feeling whooshed into her toes. Bucky and town seemed like a match made in Hell. At least Rumlow and Pierce were no where nearby to start trouble.

“What'd he do this time?”

“He reported the murder of your sheep. I was on my way to your homestead to take a look while he helps Commissioner Phillips with a matter involving the local Maori.”

“Nothing bad I hope.”

“People trust your husband to mediate whenever a dispute arises regarding trade between settlers and the native people. Guns for mokomokai, usually.”

“I watched him settle a dispute once. Why is his relationship with the natives so good?”

“He treats them with respect.”

They remained mostly silent for the rest of the ride. Winter, barking his head off, came tearing from the paddock where the sheep seemed undisturbed. Both women dismounted, and Peggy politely refused any offers of refreshment in favor of going directly to the slaughter site.

Blood stained the ground a rusty color. Footprints churned up the soil. She recognized her own prints and Bucky's. The heel of his work boot was worn to a funny slope. She also recognized the marks from the sheep. Then, there was another set of unusual prints, distinct prints, prints she'd seen before.

But she didn't open her mouth, merely stood nearby while Senior Sergeant Carter surveyed the scene. “These tracks,” Peggy began while touching the unique imprints, “belong to someone with a deformity of the leg. Maybe a pigeon toed leg. Or a slight clubbed foot.”

“I've seen them before,” Stevie volunteered.

“As have I. Brock Rumlow was here.”

“Can you use this to prove he slaughtered our sheep? Can you put him in jail?”

“This only proves he was here. It's circumstantial evidence.”

“Because he was just here smelling the country air, aye?” She reined in her sarcasm and apologized with a quiet, “Sorry.”

“I understand your frustration, Mrs. Barnes, I do, but your allegations against Mr. Pierce and Mr. Rumlow are serious, and they are important men in the community. Your husband isn't so much. He keeps to himself. He picks fights. Only a handful of people know much about him. Without solid evidence, the case becomes his word against theirs, and a jury will ultimately side with Mr. Pierce and Mr. Rumlow. It isn't fair. It is the way of the world.”

“No, you don't understand my frustration. It's not your livelihood being threatened. It's not your home, not your family, not your dog or your ground or your barn or your partner. It's mine, and I've never had those things before. Now someone is trying to take it away.”

Stevie didn't weep. She tilted her chin up in what Mum always called her stubborn look and swallowed repeatedly, trying to keep the knot of emotion from erupting. Because everything she said was true. This was her home, and it was the only one she'd ever really had.

“You're right. I don't quite understand your position, Mrs. Barnes, but I'll make note of this evidence. Keep notifying me of any further encounters, and we'll build a case against Mr. Rumlow. Help me find something concrete that can't be refuted as circumstantial.”

On their way back to the cabin, Stevie asked, “Why isn't Bucky very popular outside the Co-op and his friends from before he arrived in New Zealand?”

“You've not heard the rumors?”

She shook her head in the negative.

“Mr. Barnes served time in a penal colony for murder. Once he'd served his time, he made his living on a whaling ship that landed him here.”

“Who did he murder?”

“No one really knows that part of the story.”

“Do you believe he did it?”

“I believe justice favors the fortunate, and anything is possible.”

Again, Senior Sergeant Carter refused refreshment, choosing instead to swing herself into the saddle.

Stevie watched her disappear through the gates of Nowhere and follow the dusty road back into town. Winter came to nuzzle her fingers, so she sat on the edge of the porch to let him lick her face while smoothing fingers through his fur.

So what if Bucky had killed someone? Hadn't she done the same? Sometimes, she still felt the scalding heat of Schmidt's blood on her hands and face like it was yesterday. Sometimes, she could still smell urine as he pissed himself. And sometimes, she still felt like she was in that office being backed against a wall with his hand around her throat.

She buried her face in Winter's coat and whispered, “What are we going to do, sweetheart?”

What they did turned out to be simple precaution. One of them stayed up all night with the flock. Most nights it was Bucky because Bucky was like a mule. Some nights, it was Stevie. Both took the shotgun with them, but her husband soon learned of her atrocious aim when something spooked her, leading her to accidentally shoot a tree instead of the animal rustling through the underbrush.

The incident prompted full lessons on gun safety and handling. Bucky set up empty cans on fence posts to let her practice, but her attempts were laughably bad, her aim such that she didn't think she could hit the broad side of a barn let alone an assailant.

“You're letting the barrel take control of you, sweetheart,” Bucky said while stepping up behind her. Two strong arms slid around her body to support her arms. “You have to hold the butt strong against your shoulder, or the kick's going to hurt like fuck. Also helps support the recoil so the barrel doesn't jerk so much. Now try it again.”

With his strong arms supporting her small frame, she pulled the trigger again. The shot sent the can flying with a soft ding of the bullet against tin. Accomplishment made her chest feel tight, and she turned in Bucky's arms to plant a kiss on his lips, one he accepted with a hand on the back of her head.

They backed away to gaze at one another. She was aware something was changing between them, had been since Bucky had found out about her body and hadn't thrown her out of the house. Now that she felt safer. Now that she felt more secure.

She tipped her mouth up again as he lowered his, and they kissed properly, with open mouths and tender touches of tongues. The feeling of being in his arms didn't make her feel trapped anymore. Rather, she felt welcome, safe. 

“I don't want to file for an annulment when we go to Christchurch,” she said against his mouth.

He nodded, arms tightening. “Then we won't.”

Setting the shotgun aside, he closed both strong arm around her tight enough to lift her from her feet. The ease with which he held her made her breathless. Not scared the way it once would have, but safe. Protected. Wanted. But his hand sliding down to cover her buttocks made her stiffen. She pushed away out of reflex only to feel badly upon seeing the shuttering of his expression.

“Sorry,” she said. She rolled her eyes over her very Irish instinct to apologize even though she wasn't sorry for her reaction. “No one's ever-- You might not want me when you've seen.”

“Stevie-lass, I only got one bollock. Ain't no guarantee you're gonna want me when you see me either.”

They stood in their front yard, a soft breeze catching their hair and blowing loose strands around. The touch of his hair tickled her face. The touch of hers tickled his, and both laughed. They laughed until their bellies ached. They laughed until they leaned against one another for support and were forced to catch their breath.

“Oh, Bucky. Are you still after kicking Mr. Cadwallader's arse for getting us hitched?”

“Nah, I think I'm after sending him some of that good snuff he splurges on.”

*

That night, and for several days afterward, the rain came down hard, beating the parched basin into muddy soup and keeping most folks indoors. Bucky took care of the animals and refused to let her go out in that kind of weather, citing her recent bout with pneumonia. His care made her feel soft, cherished but also reeked of coddling.

Still, there was plenty to do in the house, washing to get done, wood to dry out by the fire in the stove, meals to get on the table. They were down to the last of their reserves. If the weather didn't break soon, they'd be out of coffee (Jesus forbid, because there would be no living with Bucky) and tea (Mary help them, because there would be no living with Stevie) and other staples.

The weather being what it was, the last thing she expected was a visitor. Drying her hands on a towel, she went to answer the door and found Natasha soaking wet and Bucky leading her horse into the barn. Stevie stepped aside to let their visitor in. She took Natasha's long cloak and fine bonnet to hang both by the fire to dry off and offered her tea from the kettle she'd just brewed.

Natasha accepted the tea with shaking hands and cradled it between her palms.

Only after seating and serving her guest did she notice the mottled bruise on Natasha's cheek. It was worse than the others, more obvious, a painful reminder how certain men felt entitled to beat their wives.

“What happened?”

“Senior Sergeant Carter stopped by asking questions about Mr. Rumlow. It seems there has been a rash of sheep killing lately, all with Mr. Rumlow's footprint pattern. He didn't come by it from birth. Alexander snapped his leg clean in half when he tried to double cross him on a rather profitable deal. They've been selling mokomokai to foreign collectors.”

“He beat you because Senior Sergeant Carter stopped by?”

“A wife costs less to replace than a horse.” Natasha's jaw clenched, her expression tight and eyes sharp as Bucky's shaving razor.

“Leave him.”

That prompted a laugh. “Some of us aren't so lucky with our husbands. Alexander wouldn't hesitate to have me committed to an asylum back in England for what I am.”

Stevie set aside her cup of tea and spanned the distance between them to clasp Natasha's hands. They were frigid, so she chaffed them between her palms. “I killed a man who found out about my... unmentionable. This--”

“Finding a word for it is difficult, is it not? Those books you showed me called us deformities. But we're perfectly capable of living full lives the way we are. It sounds so--”

“Derogatory,” Stevie finished.

Silence descended between them, broken only by the drizzle of rain against the roof and the pop of the burning logs inside the stove. But it was a comfortable silence, one shared between two people with similar life experiences. Stevie didn't even realize she still held Natasha's hands until Natasha pulled away to pick up her cup of tea.

“I would kill him in a heartbeat were it not for the men he surrounds himself with. Rollins, Rumlow, Zemo, Strucker. Even if I slit his throat while he slept, they would be there to end me, and I am rather attached to living.”

“Then I'll help you. We'll find a way.”

“That's not the reason I came, though.”

Bucky's boots were heavy on the porch, and he knocked before stepping inside. “Hope I'm not interrupting any lady time, but it's buggering cold out there, and the sheep are making it impossible to be out in the barn. Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce.”

“This concerns you, too.”

Bucky removed his slicker and boots by the front door and padded to the stove to pour himself a cup from the tea kettle, something Stevie couldn't resist smiling over considering her husband had hated tea upon her first arrival. He sat beside her on the Chesterfield.

“Alexander plans to attack you on the way to Christchurch.”

“All of us, or just me?”

“Just you. He believes killing you will break the backs of the co-op. Without you, they'll be more easily swayed into accepting his offer.”

“And you're betraying your husband because...?”

Natasha touched the deep purple along her cheekbone and jaw and winced. “Your wife and I have a certain understanding that supersedes any loyalty I may have once felt for my husband.”

“Then we'll take precautions. The co-op members will go as a group instead of individually. Safety in numbers. And I hope this understanding you and my wife share will help you to overlook me shooting your husband between his eyes.”

“I relish the thought,” she returned.

*

A week later, the rainy weather broke, allowing the ground to dry out again, and Bucky announced it was shearing season. What it meant for her was long hours spent inside the house by herself while Bucky practically moved into the barn. He was a stubborn goat, her husband, one who refused to let her lift a finger when it came to shearing the sheep.

With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she carried a container of stew and bread out to the barn in an attempt to coax him to eat something after the third long day. She found him on a stool with a sheep clamped between his legs taking a pair of shears to a ewe's thick coat. The ewe wasn't having much of it, though, and kept breaking free.

Stevie set aside her shawl and her gift of food, stepped into the pen, and grabbed the flailing sheep her husband struggled to restrain. The cries of its distress scratched at her heart, but like all things about living, it was something that had to be done.

Though Bucky chastised her, told her to take herself back to the house before the sheep kicked her, she refused to let go. They glared at one another across the trembling body between them. Stevie didn't flinch. Bucky uttered something vulgar. She shot back with something equally as vulgar.

“A lady shouldn't be talking like that,” he grumped.

“Well, I'm only part lady, and neither part of me is after sitting inside a nice, warm house while you're out here cussing the day your mother birthed you trying to make a living for both of us.”

“It's my job to take care of you.”

“It's our job to take care of each other!”

Another long pause followed with Bucky glaring through stormy eyes, hair greasy, unkempt, and tied into a tail at the back of his head, dark circles under his eyes, bruises all over his forearms from handling the sheep. He looked ridiculous. He looked like the man she'd married.

Stevie leaned over and pressed their mouths together in a quick kiss.

He furrowed his brow but caved, grabbing a pair of shears and starting the process of shearing off the sheep's heavy coat of wool. And the thing she noticed the most was his gentleness. Despite how the sheep struggled, he never lost his temper or inflicted pain. He took away the pelt as fast as possible, and upon his signal, they both released the terrified animal, who shot to its feet and took off without so much as a backward glance, not a single spot of blood on its snow white undercoat.

So they worked together from then on, Stevie taking the breaks she needed to continue tending her household chores only to help him in the barn during the evening hours.

They were nearing the end of what turned out to be a very hard two weeks when Bucky tromped inside earlier than expected holding his thick shirt around his left arm. Blood dripped down his arm. His lips were tight with pain, but he didn't make a single sound when he moved to the sink to unwrap and rinse the wound.

A lightning bolt couldn't move as fast as Stevie when she saw the sight of his blood. The laceration was deep and required holding open so they could work together to remove any evidence of dirt.

“This needs stitching,” she said.

“I'll just wrap it real tight.”

“Bucky Barnes, you will not be a stubborn arse when it comes to your health. I can't shear those sheep myself, so you need to get taken care of.”

“We don't got any pocket change left to be paying Doc Erskine,” he exclaimed.

A moment of silence stretched between them.

“Why didn't you say anything? Here I been buying tea and sugar and things we could have done without if only you'd said something.”

“You're mind to take care of,” was all he said, his voice gruff but soft.

“Oh, my sweet man.” She cupped both sides of his face, palms prickled by the scruff of his beard. “Keep pressure on that wound. I'll ride out to Doctor Erskine. I'm sure he'll understand and let us pay him after the trip to Christchurch.”

“I'm going be indebted to anyone.”

“So you'd rather catch the rot and have your arm cut off? How are you going to take care of me if you've only got one arm? Hmm? Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, you are one stubborn fool. Sorry.”

“You do that a lot. Apologize when you're not really sorry.”

She shrugged. “I'm going to get the doctor.”

The sigh he produced was heavy with burden, but he nodded. “Be careful. Take Stomper. He's better at maneuvering at night. You know how to get there?”

“Me and the Suffrage ladies took him pies and bread when he was feeling poorly with his gout. I'll not be long. So you keep pressure on that wound and hold it over your head so you don't bleed so much.”

Stevie changed into a pair of trousers, a shirt, and the thick coat Pepper had given her to wear home on a particularly chilly night. All attempts to return the coat had been rebuked, with Pepper explaining that she hadn't liked the coat to begin with.

After saddling Stomper, she climbed aboard using the mounting block and rode off into the night, her thoughts solely on getting her fool-headed husband the help he needed. That single-minded focus changed as she crossed a bridge spanning a stream and heard the sound of horse hooves following her.


	9. Second Came Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Attempted rape.

Tut-te-lot, tut-te-lot, sounded the horse's hooves on the wooden planks of the bridge. Her muscles tensed. Her instincts screamed that she should flee. Stevie stopped at the opposite end of the bridge and wheeled Stomper about. Through the darkness, she peered. Through the fog, thick as honey.

There he sat upon his big, black horse. The villains always had big, black horses whose nostrils belched fire and brimstone. He wore a hat low over his face, but the gloom still allowed her the briefest glimpse of a jawline made irregular by her husband's fists.

Tut-te-lot, tut-te-lot, came the beast's hooves at its bear-like rider's command.

Stomper pawed at the wooden planks. Stevie wrapped the reins around her fists and buried her fingers in the gelding's mane for extra support. Because between fight and flight, she possessed an alarming propensity for fight.

“Feck off, you gobshite,” she snarled. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“Little thing like you out in the middle of nowhere all by your lonesome. You should be.”

Tut-te-lot, tut-te-lot.

Stomper jumped sideways under her nervous touch. She set her heels against her mount's flanks. The gelding half-reared wheeled about, and bolted away from the bridge, pursued by the devil's hoof-beats across the bridge and onto the soil of the road.

He was a good horse. His hooves threw up clods of dirt. He stretched his neck out, mane whipping into her face as she leaned low out of the wind, but he was no beast built for speed. There was only so fast his legs could carry them, and it wasn't fast enough, not when Rumlow came up along beside them. 

He sank fingers into the bun she'd tucked her hair into and pulled her right from the saddle.

She yelped. Her legs hit the ground but her head remained firmly in his grasp as he effectively dragged her for some yards before pulling his mount to a stop. There, he dropped her into the dirt. She didn't stay down. Never stay down, she heard her mother instructing. _They push you down, you get right back up, my Stevie-girl._

Her legs were wobbly when she got to her feet. Both hands clenched into fists, and she took a fighting stance, one she'd seen often enough in underground boxing while living on the streets.

Rumlow dropped down from the saddle and advanced. Now that she knew what to look for, she noticed the limp, the turned-in foot. The way he favored that leg as he stalked her like a bear with a broken paw, but she didn't wait to be grabbed.

As soon as he was near enough, she uncoiled, a spring releasing its tension, and walloped him against his broken jaw. Breath left him. Curses thundered off his tongue. He swung wildly. She ducked beneath the meaty fist and jabbed him in the kidneys.

Staying mobile was her only chance. Like the butterflies flitting around the flowers in her garden back home spreading pollen. But he _was_ a bear, and the second he made contact, she hit the ground, her jaw on fire and bells ringing in her ears.

The scant seconds that passed wasn't enough time for her to regain her scattered wits. He was on her, rolling her onto her back, yanking her hands above her head, leering down at her with his scruffy beard and wild eyes, images that sent her tumbling back to Ireland and Johann Schmidt.

“That husband 'a yours should 'a taken Mr. Pierce up on his offer. Should 'a paid attention when I cut his water off. Should 'a been smart when I slaughtered his sheep. Would 'a saved you what's about to happen to you. 'Cause there ain't nothing worse than having his wife sent home used and wet with his enemy's jism.”

For one brief, horrible, moment, she couldn't move. He released her in favor of getting his hands on the stays of her trousers, but she couldn't move. Frozen. Terrified. Ashamed. Helpless.

Then it passed as a cloud passing from in front of the sun. She slammed the heel of her palm against his throat. With her other palm, she grabbed his shoulder for some leverage before ramming her knee up between his legs. He howled, snarled, and snapped. He rolled to his side and cupped himself there, and she was on her feet in as little as a heartbeat.

Stomper was right there.

She flung herself into the saddle, grabbed the reins of Rumlow's horse, and bolted toward town.

There wasn't time to go to Senior Sergeant Carter. Bucky could be at home bleeding to death, so she rode directly to Doctor Erskine's home to bang on the door. He answered with bleary eyes and gray wisps of his fluffy eyebrows looking as unkempt as a wheat field after a storm.

“Mrs. Barnes, what brings you out at such an hour?”

“Bucky cut himself. It looks bad. I have only a little bit of money, probably not enough, but I beg upon your good, Christian charity. Whatever you think is fair, I'll work it off as much as I can.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Barnes. If someone's injured and in need of my services, I'll not turn them away. Let me get dressed and get my things.” He paused in the process of inviting her inside. “Why do you have Mr. Rumlow's horse?”

“He didn't look like he could much ride after I gave it to his bollocks with my knee.” Neither was she ashamed of announcing it in front of the good doctor.

“Good girl. Now, come out from this chilly weather. I'll send my apprentice down to fetch Senior Sergeant Carter while you're waiting.”

Senior Sergeant Carter didn't look the least bleary eyed during the interview, and Stevie wondered, why should she feel ashamed upon admitting he'd tried to rape her? There was no shame that should be heaped on her over Rumlow's choices except those dictated by a callous society. Hardly a thing worth worrying about when society would never accept her whether she be a whore or pure as the driven snow.

In the end, Senior Sergeant Carter took two deputies and rode in the direction she'd left Rumlow while she guided Stomper alongside Dr. Erskine's buggy. The night wasn't so terrifying with the good doctor's company. He kept chattering about this and that, giving her something grounding to hold onto lest the fear rise up again like a snake twisting through her intestines and seeking to crawl out from her mouth.

The lights were on inside. She dismounted and took Doctor Erskine's horse to tie to a post before seeing Stomper back to his stall for the night. The horse nudged her shoulder. For whatever reason, it was the stone that splashed into a too-full bucket and spilled water on the a fine rug. Tears came. They came. And they came. And they came some more.

But she was tough, she kept telling herself. Life in Ireland had toughened her hide. She didn't understand why she should be so tormented by something she'd foiled in the end. Rumlow hadn't fulfilled the deed, but she could still smell his breath, foul with tobacco, in her face as he muttered those horrid words to and about her.

When she'd wept herself dry, she rubbed her cheeks with the sleeves of her shirt, put a few extra oats in Stomper's feed trough, and made her way inside to check on Bucky.

“Christ, give a guy a warning before you stab him.”

“What're you taking the Lord's name in vain for?” she snapped.

Bucky appeared sheepish, at least until he looked more intently at her face. Then, he tried to get up despite the doctor trying to stitch up his arm. “What happened? You been crying, Stevie-love.”

“Nothing to worry about tonight.”

Bucky turned his attention to Doctor Erskine, clearly looking for an answer, but the good doctor said nothing, merely concentrated on the fine stitches crawling their way up his arm.

She sat beside him to take his free hand. “It's fine. I'm fine.” Which was more or less true. Her scalp hurt like nobody's business, but nothing was broken, and her secret was still safe.

And God, what a thing to think about, she considered, that she was more terrified of having her penis discovered than she was of actual rape. At least rape would just make her soiled goods. Her deformity--her body could see her locked away for the rest of her life or forced to live as a man.

So she said nothing while holding her husband's hand. And she said nothing when she fixed them all some hot tea. And she said nothing while Doctor Erskine tied off the stitches, applied a salve, and bandaged his arm with instructions to change the bandage daily and cut down on the usage of his arm.

“How am I supposed to do that when it's shearing season?” he asked when they'd seen the doctor on his way, the rattle of his buggy fading down the pitted road.

“I can finish the shearing.”

“Like Hell. You're my wife. A man takes care of his wife.”

Her gaze sought the ceiling as she prayed for patience. “Are we back to this again?”

“Look, Stevie, those sheep are mighty unhappy being held down and sheared, and I know you're stronger than you look, but there's no way you can hold down a sheep and shear at the same time.”

“So I'm just a helpless--”

“Stop twisting my bloody words and accept your own limitations.”

“You accept your own limitations,” she shouted back with a wild gesture at his bandaged arm.

“Jesus Christ--”

“The Lord's name.”

Bucky released a jolt of laughter. “What a pair we make.” Cupping the back of her neck, he pulled her forward into a gentle kiss. “Tell me what happened earlier. Why were you crying?”

“My fool-headed husband almost cut his damned arm off. I thought someone was following me, but it was just stress. It was all just stress and worry for your health.”

“You sure?”

She nodded instead of telling yet another lie. The thing was that telling Bucky wouldn't do anything but rile him up. Next thing she knew, he would be mounted on a horse tearing off to Rumlow's place with full intentions of shooting him. Maybe Bucky would be right to shoot him on her behalf, but it would do no good to stir up more trouble just before their trip to Christchurch.

So they dropped the subject. Stevie finished up in the barn for the night, made sure the sheep were in their corral and Winter was nearby to warn them of intruders. By the time she returned, Bucky was in the bedroom trying to remove his clothing with only one arm.

Stevie batted his hands away to unfasten each button on his shirt. She helped him out of his boots and trousers, and then looked at him in his gray union suit. The gray had turned rusty with his own blood. Her fingers trembled. She clenched them to get control of herself. When they settled, she unbuttoned him one fastening at a time, showing off a swath of chest sprinkled with dark hair and laden with muscle sculpted from hard work.

She got all the way down to his crotch before he caught her hands in one of his own and brought them to his lips. The soft scratch of his beard against her skin made her belly tingle.

“You don't have to. I can take it from here.”

“What if I wanted to?”

“Anything you want, Stevie-love.”

The last few buttons went easily, and she pushed the fabric from his hips to look at him, her heart skipping every other beat, and she couldn't tell if it was from excitement or fear. Maybe a bit of both. Because he was beautiful, even with his one bollock, even with a scar carving the inside of his thigh.

“You're beautiful,” she murmured.

“Why do you think you aren't?”

“Because I'm not--” The words failed her. “I don't know how to say it.”

“But you are. You so very much are,” he murmured, their mouths so close she could feel the warmth of his breath waft across her cheek.

Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was lingering fear. Maybe she just wanted to finally ease the sexual tension between them. Whatever the case, she wrapped both arms around his neck and kissed him. Kissing, she liked. Kissing made her feel good. Being kissed by someone who knew about her condition but wanted to kiss her anyway was even better.

Her heartbeat fluttered like a butterfly when they broke for air. She couldn't look away from the smoky storm of his eyes, heavy lidded, and intense.

“If I asked you to make use of your rights as my husband, would you?”

“No.”

Dread plunged through her body. She swallowed and swallowed again.

“But if you asked me if I want to make love with my wife, I absolutely would.”

Whiplash would have startled her less than the sudden swing of emotions that brought her in contact with his body. Their kisses started out sweet but became frantic the more they desired one another, but still, he took his time. He took his time when he unbuttoned her shirt. He took his time when he released the stays of her trousers.

He went to one knee and took a slender ankle in hand to lift her foot atop his thigh so he could undo the buttons on her boots and remove them. And when he was finished slipping her trousers off, he ran both hands up the backs of her calves until fingers traced the lacy edge of her pantaloons. Those storm-blue eyes looked up the length of her body. A grin curved his sumptuous mouth, making the dimple in his chin stand out all the more.

“May I?” he asked, hands poised at the waistband of her pantaloons.

She was so in awe of the man at her feet that she nodded, dumbfounded that he would even want to, but there was no banishing the tension, the instinctive fear, the static charge threatening to snap the atmosphere around them when he pulled them down and took her hand to balance her as she stepped out of them. It was the first time anyone had seen her naked. 

“Tell me how to please you,” he said.

“I don't know.”

“We'll find out together.”

Nothing prepared her for having Bucky press his face into her groin nor the sound of him inhaling the musk of her body like it was something fine and delicious. His tongue dragging up the length of her cock startled her into yelping. The touch was invasive, but it was tender, and the wet heat of his tongue made her tingle the way she hadn't before.

He slipped his mouth around her as much as he could while cupping her buttocks. It gave him enough leverage to pull her deeper into his mouth because her cock wasn't of a size that could reach the back of his throat, but the heat in her loins still felt intense.

Being touched so intimately for the first time didn't turn her wanton; she still trembled with nerves. She felt flighty when she touched him, her fingers trembling as she brushed them through his hair. But it felt good. And she didn't want him to stop. And she hoped he got that message when she sank her fingers to his scalp and pulled him closer.

He pulled back to breathe. There was something erotic about the shine of spit on his bottom lip. They made eye contact. Stevie was certain her face was flushed with pink, but he said nothing while getting to his feet and pulling their naked bodies flush together. Another moment of overwhelming decadence.

“If you need to stop, Stevie-love, you tell me to. No lying back and thinking of England.”

“Feck off. I'm not after thinking of England except to curse her name for being the ruin of my country. Or at least the top half of it.”

Bucky laughed, an effervescent sound.

Together, they climbed on the bed. Bucky didn't move atop her, didn't force her legs open to accept him, didn't hold her down or make her feel trapped. Rather, he laid them on their sides and pulled one of her legs atop his hip, opening her body enough for their groins to rub together.

A jolt of fear and fascination punched through her upon feeling the heavy weight of his erection pressed against her stomach. She startled again. He allowed her what time she needed to settle down instead of pressing his advantage, and when she felt safe again, she kissed him while rain pattered down on the roof.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. He helped her position herself above him. Fingers closed around her cock to stroke gently, to coax, to set her blood to boil, and that's what it felt like, she realized, to lust. She allowed her head to drop back and her hands to settle against the mounds of his chest muscles. Her body tightened. His fingers slipped behind her cock and delved between the folds of her sex to find the molten core.

Then, he was inside her. The girth of him stretched her. Pain was absent, fullness and pressure rising in its place. He was inside her. She was joined with him in the most intimate of ways, and he wasn't repulsed by her body. In fact, he looked at her like she was something special, his hands sliding up her ribs and over her small breasts so his thumbs could coax pleasure from her nipples.

But she didn't know how.

“I don't know how,” she said aloud.

“I'll show you, Stevie-love.”

Big palms cupped her hips and helped her rock, showed her how to lift her body up and bring it back down, taught her how to take him and take from him. Once she had the idea, he sat up to pull their chests together and helped by rocking up into her body.

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph,” she breathed against the skin of his shoulder.

“Lord's name, love.”

Laughter huffed against his skin.

The pace picked up. He filled her and retreated and filled her again, taking her high, higher, higher still, so high she thought she could reach out and touch the clouds. Then, he stroked his fingers around her cock, and the tension in her loins erupted. It was like being flung skyward but knowing he would catch her when she floated back to the ground.

He made a sound beneath her, something between a growl and a whimper. “Stevie-love. My darlin'. Fuck.” His seed filled her with warmth and wetness, and as he collapsed back against the pillows, he took her with him so she could lie atop his body, their sexes still joined.

*

She loathed to admit it, but Bucky was right. Wrangling a sheep and trying to shear it at the same time was too much for her, and fecking shite did she hate admitting there was something she couldn't do. 

Grimacing, she stomped into the house to find her husband struggling with opening the firebox on the stove to add more wood. She pushed him out of the way, opened the firebox, and tossed a few logs inside to keep the heat going under the pot of soup bubbling away for dinner. The slam of it closing banged in the quiet interior.

“Moody much?” he teased. And she knew he was teasing. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her that much, but the comment settled the wrong way.

“You can take your fecking sheep and shove 'em up your arse.”

His laughter followed her into the bedroom. “I told you--”

“Finish that statement, and I'll be after breaking your nose to go with your bum arm.”

He threw both hands in the air in surrender, and he stood watching her storm out of her work clothing in favor of donning a simple skirt and dress. “Going to your meeting?”

“Least I'll do more good than I would be staring at your fecking sheep the rest of the day.” She snatched up her bonnet after pinning her hair in place and made for the door only to be stopped by Bucky's deep rumble.

“Stevie-love, don't leave angry with me.”

Of course he was right. Like he'd been right about her inability to finish shearing the sheep on her own. Leaving angry with him wouldn't do a damn thing except put them both in a bad mood. When she stepped closer, she caressed the side of his throat and stood in tip-toe to meet his lips halfway.

The rattle of a carriage and Winter's barking interrupted them.

“Thought you'd been taking Chomper to your meetings lately.”

“Not today.”

And damnation, but her husband saw more than any husband should see because he cupped her elbow before she could slither out the door. He pulled her back to face him.

“You haven't wanted to ride anywhere by yourself since the night I was hurt. You sure there's something you ain't telling me? Something that might have frightened you? Because you can tell me anything, and I ain't going to be angry with you.”

She couldn't look him in the face and lie to him. “No, nothing happened except Stomper getting spooked and almost dumping me on the ground.”

He searched her face before releasing her.

“Have a good time at your meeting.”

Stevie did not have a good time at her meeting. She was riled up and argumentative, and it all started when Mrs. Stark arrived with a new guest, one Stevie recognized. Rui, the Maori woman who had saved her life from the bigger cold, walked in wearing a woven top of vibrant colors and geometric patterns and a kilt that could barely be considered modest in European society.

“If we're fighting for the rights of women,” Stevie said, “then we're fighting for the rights of all women, not just women with our skin tone.”

“But we aren't equipped to be the spokeswomen of a culture we know little about,” returned Mrs. Summers. “Let the Maori form their own movement and campaign for their own needs.”

Rui said something in her native language that Mrs. Stark seemed to understand. She nodded. “Consider this. We could be the first colony to pass sweeping changes allowing all women to vote, even those of the so-called conquered nation.”

“We were not conquered,” Rui added.

Mrs. Summers continued, “I'm simply saying that your needs aren't the same as our needs, so how are we expected to fight for both when it's hard enough getting men to listen to us?”

“Fecking horseshite,” Stevie murmured under her breath.

“What kind of language did your mother rear you with?” admonished Mrs. Summers.

“Just look at us. We aren't women anymore. We're white women. We're Maori women. Then we're upper class women and lower class women. Then we're Catholics. Then we're Protestants. How many ways are you going to split us up to make us less effective?”

Mrs. Summers huffed. She looked like she'd gotten a bad whiff of something that made her turn her nose up. It was probably her own bullshite.

So Stevie went on, “I won't be part of any group that says Rui can't sit at the same table and share her concerns about the empowerment of women in New Zeleand. It was her country first. We arrived and--”

“And brought them education and Christianity and civilization.”

Stevie shoved to her feet and probably would have done something rash with her fists were it not for Rui's laughter. It was a deep, husky sort of laugh. 

“We don't need you to be our white Jesus, Mrs. Barnes. My tongue works. My lips form words. My hands can fight my own battles. Sit. Mrs. Summers is not the first pākehā to feel superior. She won't be the last. But the _tangata whenua_ don't need your acceptance.

“You came to this land, and we lived peacefully with you. We signed the Treaty of Waitangi, but you wanted more. You brought guns for people of other clans to decimate each other. You brought disease, and some clans no longer exist. You brought your Jesus Christ and try to replace our customs with yours, and some accept this. The _tangata whenua_ do not. We will make our own future with or without your help. I come only to lend our voices to lift up yours.”

“How do you expect your voice to uplift ours when we are sup--” Mrs. Summers must have sensed the growing tension in the room, as she held back the word that would have condemned her.

“Pākehā women have much farther to climb.”

There wasn't much to say after that since most people at the table suspected Rui spoke nothing but the truth. How often Stevie had seen it while working in Ireland as a domestic servant. Marriage for the Victorian woman was to become an extension of her husband. Her property became his property. Their children became his children. If she were caught having an affair, she could be divorced and have her children taken away from her, but men faced no similar shame.

Rui wasn't afraid to speak in front of her husband. The short time she'd been with them traveling back to Bucky's homestead, she'd watched Rangi cook as many meals as Rui. So maybe she was right. Maybe it was the European women who needed help lifting their voices loud enough to be heard.

After the meeting let out with promises to meet at the government building in Christchurch the following week, Stevie approached Rui to thank her for coming. Rui looked her up and down and told her she looked better dry than soaking like a drowned bird. Stevie didn't take offense. In fact, she laughed at the teasing and agreed.

And rather than ride home in Mrs. Stark's carriage, she rode behind Rui atop a hardy horse, who dropped her off at Nowhere on her way back to her village.

Stevie's boots touched the ground, and she rested a hand upon Rui's. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for respecting me enough to stop behaving like Jesus to the _tangata whenua_. Safe journey to Christchurch next week. Rangi and I will be joining your caravan with our own goods to sell, so you will not be the only woman riding amongst rough company.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

They parted ways, then, and Stevie was ready to head inside when she noticed a light on inside the barn. Anger welled inside her breast. If Bucky Barnes was in there shearing sheep with his injury, she would not be held responsible for--

Laughter from several people floated out the open barn door. She recognized Mr. Morita, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Dernier's voices and smiled a happy sort of smile. Rather than breaking up their time, she went inside to get some supper and clean up around the house.


	10. Then Came The Baby In The Baby Carriage

Traveling with multiple families in one caravan mean privacy was at a premium. They could set up the tent at night, but it was small enough make changing clothes a frustrating task. But the nights? She enjoyed the nights pressed against the bulk of Bucky's body, his arm slung over her waist.

Sometimes, deep in the night when the camp was quiet but for the crackle of a fire or the rustle of animals, he lifted her skirt around her hips and pushed himself inside her until her hips arched and her eyes cross and the wet heat of her body made him muffle his groans into the back of her shoulder.

She clutched his naked hip to urge him on, to silently ask him to go faster, to go harder. And it was everything she'd wanted since their first time together. They shifted enough for their lips to meet in sloppy kisses that left her lightheaded.

She wanted more and rolled onto her stomach. He moved with her to avoid leaving her body, and there, on her stomach, she could grind her cock down against their sparse bedding while he moved inside her from behind. 

The tight squeeze, the girth of his sex, the way he nuzzled the nape of her neck, his teeth as they scraped the skin there, their muffled grunts and groans. The orgasm was a thunderstorm after a stifling summer afternoon. She moaned into her hand in an effort to quiet herself and reached over her shoulder to grip his thick hair with her fingers as he shuddered atop her.

Being filled with he wetness of his seed made her entire body clench, not out of revulsion, but out of hope: the hope she could create new life with him. But she didn't know if she could conceive let alone bring a child into the world. Not even Dr. Erskine could tell how intact her internal reproductive organs were. Could be she didn't have all the necessary parts.

Thinking about it made her eyes prickle. Next thing she knew, tears wet her cheeks.

“Stevie-love, what's wrong?”

She couldn't answer.

“You're scaring me, sweetheart. Did I hurt you?”

Tender hands caught her shoulders and turned her, though she didn't resist. They turned her until she was forced to face him. Her gaze caught with his, and his were so achingly concerned, achingly softhearted it did nothing to stop the flow of tears.

“You didn't hurt me,” she said.

“Tell me what's wrong.” He cupped her cheek and used a thumb to wipe away tears from her cheeks.

“I want to carry your child, but I don't know if I can. You want children with me, don't you?”

“Do you know what I want most?”

She shook her head.

“For us to be happy, healthy, and prosperous. That's all I need, Stevie-love. If God blesses us with children, I'll love them, too. If He doesn't, I won't feel more than an ounce of regret. Besides, there's lots of children 'round here who need good mothering and fathering, kids who don't have any other home, you understand. We could give them a home.”

Shaking her head, she buried her face in his chest to inhale the smell of him, the dust and the sweat and the dirt from traveling. “Nobody told me pulling the thorn from the wolf's paw would turn him so sweet. You're after making me love you, aye?”

“Well, that wouldn't be an undesirable aspect of married life, love.”

For whatever reason, the comment made her giggle. Though she tried muffling it against his chest, Mr. Morita, who slept in a tent beside theirs, told them to pipe down. People were trying to sleep.

Exactly four people looked at them knowingly when they stepped out of their tent the next morning, like those people could see right through their straightened clothing and knew what they'd been up to last night. Rui made a comment to her husband in their native tongue that made Rangi laugh.

“Talking so we can't understand you is not fair,” she quipped and walked straight past them, which only made them laugh harder.

Steve didn't stay mad at them long. She couldn't when traveling in close company with so many different people. Seven families had chosen to ban together for the trip, their buckboards laden with wool for the market in Christchurch. Some brought other goods for sale, and everyone shared many of the daily chores that came with travel.

The women did the cooking. Or at least the Europeans did. Rangi could often be found watching the stew pot while repairing a piece of clothing or sharpening a tool. Some went so far as to poke fun at him for doing woman's work. Others made a bigger deal of it and suggested he would have a bad influence on their wives.

Rangi never bothered setting them straight or explaining his choice of roles. He simply looked at his wife, busy washing up their three children or checking their ration stores.

So the next day, Stevie emerged from the tent wearing a pair of trousers and her work boots. She marched to the line Stomper and Chomper were tethered to and brought them around to hitch them to the wagon while people gawped at her.

“Barnes, your wife--”

“Is hitching our horses to our wagon while I grease up this axle. You got a problem with that, Hobbs?”

Stevie's secret grin displayed the happiness and pride she felt that her husband refused to be emasculated for letting her do some of the heavier chores around camp. When she passed Rangi, he stopped what he was doing and nodded.

Mostly, she spent the time driving the buckboard while Bucky leaned back against the seat with a rifle braced across his knees. There'd been no indication they were being followed as of yet, but the threat of Alexander Pierce hung in the air, making everyone nervous.

She tried to put it out of her mind in favor of watching the endless sea of grasses dotted with crystal-blue lakes. Mount Cook grew more distant the farther north they traveled, and after five days, they started to climb. The horses didn't strain under the weight of their cargo, but they stopped more frequently to water them and give them a chance to rest.

The eighth night out of what Bucky said would be a ten day journey (though they'd been slowed down by roads left deeply rutted from the wet season), they camped on a plateau, their wagons pulled into a close formation and several fires dotting the surroundings.

Something made the atmosphere more nervous. Women kept their children close. Men kept their rifles close at hand. Winter plopped himself down at her feet, head resting atop her boots.

“Sing us a song from Ireland,” Mrs. Hobbs requested. “My family came from Ireland, you know. Sometimes I miss it. There's nothing to cure homesickness quite like one of the old tunes.”

“Oh, I'm not very good with things like that.”

“Please, it would means so much to me.”

Cheeks hot, Stevie looked toward Bucky, who gave her an encouraging nod.

Her voice was rough when she started, “My love said to me, my Mother won't mind, and me Father won't slight you for your lack of kind, and she stepped away from me, and this she did say, 'it will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day.'”

People settled into their crates or their barrels to listen. Someone broke out an old violin to contribute the melody, which Stevie didn't mind. It helped cover any imperfections in her voice.

“The people were saying, 'no two e'er were wed, but one has a sorrow that ne'er was said.”

Winter's head lifted from her feet, ears perked forward.

“I dreamed it last night that my true love came in. So softly she entered, her feet made no din. She came close beside me, and this she did say, 'it will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day.”

A gunshot cracked the hushed silence. Blood sprayed from Mrs. Hobb's throat, splashing hot against Stevie's face, who sat in stunned silence long enough Bucky grabbed her and took her to the ground. More gunshots followed. The rap-a-tap-tap filling the campsite as people screamed, scattered, and sought to take cover.

Winter, snarling, took off into the darkness.

Bucky shouted for him to heel, but the dog disappeared from sight. “Stevie, get inside the wagon, and stay there. Morita, Rangi, we have to lay down cover fire so the women can get the wagons away!”

“Rally to Barnes, lads!” shouted Morita.

A bullet splintered the wood as it drove through the side of the buckboard. She yelped. Her heart was frantic as the wings of a humming bird as she scrambled toward the seat to carry out Bucky's orders, but she came first upon the back up rifle Bucky had brought with them.

Leaving her husband behind? Wondering if he'd been shot or was lying dead for the birds to pick at? She couldn't do it, so instead of leaving, she loaded the rifle and used the side of the buckboard for cover, teeth gritted when she heard a dog yelp.

People moved in the shadows all around the campsite. Men on horseback circled them, so that even the women who could get horses hitched to wagons didn't stand a chance of riding out of there safe and sound. And that was before the fire.

Someone wearing black cloth over the bottom half of his face rode toward them. A gun cracked like thunder. He started to slide from the saddle but was close enough he threw the torch he carried into the nearest wagon. The wool went up in flames.

Stevie found a target and took the shot. The man twisted with the bullet's impact and fell from his saddle. She didn't celebrate a clean shot, not when a man with another torch came hurtling toward their wagon with ill intent, and the only thing she could think about was defending what was theirs.

She wiped sweat from her brow, tuned out the chaos, and sited. The kick bruised her shoulder, but it achieved the desired affect. The man flew off the saddle, his horse spooking and trampling him in its terror before pounding away into the distance.

“Stevie, for fuck's sake!” Bucky shouted over the din.

“They got us surrounded, and you need every gun you can muster.”

Flames leaped from the Coulsons' wagon to the Fitzs' wagon, spreading the haunting glow of destruction. It made seeing their attackers easier, but the horses had caught the scent of danger and were threatening to bolt.

“Douse the fire,” Rui shouted. “Use your barrels of drinking water. Stop that fire from spreading.”

He came out of the darkness atop that black beast of his. Mr. Rumlow, his hat missing and not bothering with using a cloth to hide his identity, charged their defensive line. Guns cracked, but no one caught a good shot. Quite the opposite. Rumlow took his own shot. The man beside Bucky slumped over the barrel he'd been hiding behind.

Stevie reloaded and returned fire, causing Rumlow to shy away as his horse danced back out of the range of their guns.

“It doesn't need to end like this, Barnes. Surrender your wool, and no one else has to die.”

Bucky looked behind him at several bodies littering the ground, and at old Mr. Hobbs trying desperately to stem the flow of blood from his wife's body, at the flash of carnage that had soiled an otherwise quiet night.

“And starve come winter? Better to be shot dead here than endure that fate.”

“You can go back to whaling. Or better yet, go back to England. Stand trial for what you done. Maybe you'd even get a fair trial now that you ain't more than a sheep shearer. Walk away, Barnes, or the first thing I'll do before shooting you betwixt the eyes is let you watch me finish what I started on your lovely wife.”

Winter came out of nowhere. White fangs snapped into the tendons of a leg on Rumlow's beast. The horse, terrified and in pain, reared, and Stevie took a shot. 

Two things happened simultaneously, then. Hooves lashed out and sent Winter tumbling across the plain where he lay motionless. Mr. Rumlow fell from the saddle. He rose and took a stumbling step in their direction but only made it two steps before collapsing to his knees where he glanced down in disbelief. He touched his chest and couldn't seem to understand when it came away wet with blood.

Something else also happened. Whistles sounded as hooves thundered in their direction. She was terrified it was backup coming to help Rumlow finish what he'd started. So when the riders came close enough for her to see the insignia on her breast—Senior Sergeant Peggy Carter riding at the head of a group of armed constables—Stevie let out a soft sob.

“Everyone lay down your arms,” Carter ordered.

*

The horror of the night's events didn't dawn on Stevie until the following morning, the sun burning away overnight clouds to allow shafts of sunlight to bathe the plateau. She sat on the back of the buckboard, swathed in a shawl when she thought herself she should probably cry. Tears fell.

She'd shot people. She'd killed Mr. Rumlow.

Someone must have wiped her face clean of Mrs. Hobbs' blood, because her came away wet with tears, but there was no pink. Someone had washed her face, bundled her up, and left her, and she hadn't realized at the time what was happening.

Because she'd killed Mr. Rumlow.

A nearby whimper made her startle. She jumped and turned to find Winter in the back of the wagon. His hindquarters were heavily bandaged, and he looked up at her with hooded eyes. And despite his pain, he thumped his tail against the buckboard's floor and nosed in her direction.

“My sweet boy, you're still alive.”

She crawled to him to stroke his muzzle. Winter had saved them, so she bent to enfold his head in her arms and whisper thanks in his ears. They'd been so close to losing him, to losing each other, to losing their livelihood, and for what? Because Pierce was a greedy arse who wanted to rule everyone around him, who believed his wealth made him superior.

And she'd shot Mr. Rumlow. Part of her thought she should feel good. After all the things he'd done to them, to her, she should feel satisfied, like her honor had been avenged, but she didn't feel anything but numbness and the spreading horror that she'd taken another life. Maybe killing was in her blood. Maybe that was why God had created her in her mother's womb to be--

“Stevie-love.”

His voice reached into the downward spiral and offered a lifeline with which to reel herself back to shore. She grabbed it with all her strength. Dirt covered his face. He hadn't shaved or trimmed his beard since their journey had started, but his clothes were free of blood.

She made a sound of distress before scrambling into his open arms to hide her face against his neck. “He's dead, isn't he? Tell me he's dead.”

“He's dead, darling.” Broad palms smoothed up and down her back. “You did real good last night, love. You saved us.”

“I didn't-- I'm so confused.”

“That's okay.” He cupped her face and pulled it free of his neck. “Senior Sergeant Carter needs to take your statement, though. Do you think you can manage?”

“How did she get here so fast? How did she know?”

Peggy spoke, saying, “We received a tip from one of Mackenzie's most prominent citizens that an attack on the caravan was not only probable but likely, so we set out after you and kept a fair distance until the attack came. Once we heard the gunshots, we got here as soon as we could. Now, do you think you can manage your statement?”

Because she always managed. No matter the trial or tribulation, she always pulled herself through, even if it was on her belly dragging herself through the mud with people shouting expletives in the hopes she would give up. She wasn't about to let those people win.

“Of course.”

“You're not in any trouble,” Carter said after approaching. “This is a clear case of self-defense. Especially after--”

Stevie's eyes widened, and her heart rate spiked. She cut her hand through the air in an effort to silence Peggy before she revealed that night when Rumlow had nearly violated her.

“After what?” asked Bucky.

Peggy, to her credit, saved the situation by saying, “After he murdered your sheep. We can take that before a court of law and have the loss of your livestock taken out of his estate. I just need to take down your statement for the record.”

Stevie spent the next half hour giving Peggy the details from her perspective. Or as many as she could recall. Funny, she thought, how she could remember every sight and sound of the battle but couldn't remember the things that had come afterward. Shock, Peggy suggested, could do that to the mind.

They stayed on the plateau most of the morning to clean up. The Coulsons' and the Fitzs' had lost most of the contents of their wagons and chose to turn back. Old Mr. Hobbs went with them, bearing the body of late wife back to the church where they'd been married so she could be interred there. Bucky offered to take his wool on to market and get the best deal possible.

Watching the people rally around Bucky was something nice to focus on. He was a natural leader, charming when he wanted to be, so by the afternoon, the remainder of their party packed their wagons and continued on toward Christchurch, their buckboard at the front of the party with Stomper and Chomper looking none the worse for wear.

Every now and then, Stevie climbed into the back to check on Winter, whose condition held steady the remainder of the day. He couldn't stand on his hind legs to relieve himself, so she wound some cloth under his belly to help him stand to do his business when they stopped to rest.

The two nights that followed were spent in wariness. Everyone stayed close to the caravan. No one pulled out their instruments. No one sang. Only quiet conversation interrupted the night's silence. She understood their fear. It was her own fear, too.

If Pierce was willing to send armed men to stop them, what else was he willing to do? What other illegal activities would be allowed to get away with in sacrifice to his greed?

Stevie had no aspirations that the world worked in anyway else. Rich men held the power. Poor men eked a living from the land or the work of their hands. The destitute died in a cold ditch only to be thrown into unmarked graves, and that would have been her plight. Before New Zealand. Before Mr. Cadwallader's advertisement. Before Bucky Barnes.

She wound her arm through the crook of his as their buckboard rocked through a rut. In the distance, smoke rose from various furnaces and factories. The outskirts of Christchurch flourished with newly constructed businesses and homes, but the farther toward the city center they traveled, the more compact the streets became. The scent of human activity turned thick.

Their caravan rolled to a stop outside a factory building to pull in line with various other wagons. Men shouted back and forth as they haggled price, and there was such a variety she thought her head would spin. Black men, white men, Asian men, Maori men. Christchurch seemed to be the center of the world as far as the South Island was concerned.

Bucky hopped down and came around to hold out his hands. She didn't need help out of the wagon, but she accepted it anyway, allowing him to lift her down.

“Go with Rui. She'll take you to the inn we'll stay at tonight. I'll meet you there when business here is done,” he said before kissing her on the cheek.

Both of her hands tightened on his forearms at the thought of being separated from him in such a cramped place. “I'd rather stay. Shouldn't I know how this part of the business is done in case I need to do it on my own some day?”

“That will never happen.”

“God, we've had this argument so many times.”

“Lord's name,” he retorted.

It made her laugh at least.

“Please, Stevie-love, for once would you do as I ask? This is no place for a lady. The language you'll be exposed to here--”

“As if I've never heard fecking foul language before. Stop trying to protect me from things I don't need protecting from, Buck.”

For once in their marriage, Bucky won this round. He won it when someone from the factory insisted they didn't allow women inside. There was too much machinery, and a lady's clothes could get caught up in something and lead to an accident. Rather than make a scene, she agreed, leaving Winter in Bucky's good care while Rui came to fetch her with a basket over the crook of her arm.

Both women were quiet during the walk to the inn. They spent the time dodging foot traffic and listening to the banter of people going about their business. She'd forgotten what it felt like living in the city, had forgotten the stench of industrial commerce and the deprivation that left streets littered with human waste and the homeless.

Several children dashed away from a bakery being chased by the shop owner while the littlest clutched a loaf of bread to her chest. His long stride caught up with them, and the eldest turned to defend the smaller only to have his ear boxed hard enough he hit the ground.

“Do you routinely beat children?” she demanded, breaking away from Rui to storm over to the baker.

“These ain't children. They're hooligans. Running the streets stealing from hard working people.”

“They're starving.”

“Ain't no business of mine, madam. Don't matter who they are. They're taking money from the mouths of me own children.”

Stevie opened the little purse tied to her wrist and jammed a couple of coins in his hand. “There's the money for your children's mouths. Maybe if you hired the eldest to sweep floors and paid him with day old products, they wouldn't be after stealing to fill their bellies.”

She about-faced and moved to rejoin Rui, who hid a smile behind her stern expression. They continued their journey, but Stevie kept looking over her shoulder to watch the baker help the boy off the street and jerked his head toward the shop.

“You'll try to save the world one day.”

“Not the world,” she corrected, “just my corner of it. Besides, I don't like bullies.”

Vendors lined the streets out front of their inn, trying to tempt visitors into buying little trinkets and finger foods. Stevie ignored them, but a man shouting over the crowd like a barker at a carnival caught her attention. He waved stacks of paper overhead and proclaimed an exhibit of Dr. Barton's Traveling Museum of the Weird and Unusual.

“You, madam. Take a flier. Come and see the world's largest collection of human oddities.”

She accepted the paper but didn't read it there on the street. Rui rushed her along to their inn where she showed the innkeeper co-op credentials that got them assigned rooms. The room she would share with Bucky was small but clean. The bed was made up with fresh linens. A washstand provided a place to perform their morning ablutions. The mirror hanging above it reflected her face. She looked tired and dirty from travel, so she removed her bonnet, undressed, and washed as best she could with the cold water in the jug. It was cloudy with dirt by the time she was done.

While drying, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the paper. It advertised Dr. Barton's collection of human oddities: a man with a trunk for a nose, a woman with a horn growing from her forehead, a child with two functioning heads, and no less than three hermaphrodites willing to shock the audience with their malformations.

She thought she was going to be sick. Then she was sick. There wasn't much in her stomach to come up, so she mostly dry-heaved with her head hanging over the bowl of used water. To be put on display like that left her feeling vulnerable and uncertain. She couldn't imagine how anyone could allow themselves to be showed off for the amusement of the public.

She didn't intend to give Dr. Barton a single coin for his exploitation, but after spending a night curled up with Bucky and him leaving early the next morning for business, curiosity got the better of her. After a light breakfast—she couldn't stomach the thought of the sausages and eggs served by the inn that morning—of toast and marmalade, she left to find the building Dr. Barton had set up shop in.

It was one of those grandiose buildings that looked it belonged amongst the grandest halls of England, and words carved into the facade called it a college. She wasn't sure what a college was, but they accepted her coins and ushered inside. Signs led her downstairs into a room that felt all too claustrophobic, as it was crammed with display cases showing off organs.

Then came the organs and body parts kept in jars, and those seemed malformed in some manner. A baby's chest had been peeled open to showcase a heart too large for its body. Another contained a disembodied torso with the stomach having been born outside the body.

The dead things, she could handle, but when she passed through the curtain and saw living people sitting on stools being gawked at by the public, she damn near turned and fled. It was too easy to picture herself sitting on one of those stools to be leered at, and some men leered while their wives hide their faces or clutched children to their skirts.

Entering another room, she found a group of people sitting on stools facing velvet curtains. She sat toward the back. After a few minutes, the first curtain lifted. Inside, a woman lifted her skirt and showed off her private regions while a man dressed in a suit and top hat explained that she possessed an underdeveloped penis and no vaginal opening.

Audience members gasped.

Another curtain lifted to reveal a man, who lifted his nightshirt to show off what the announcer called diminutive male reproductive organs. They were smaller than should be, and combined with well-developed breast led to him being classed as a hermaphrodite.

Stevie hated that word. She hated that word because people said it like they spat something nasty from their mouth. Disturbed and feeling queasy again, she left the presentation early only to be accosted by a preacher proclaiming the oddities inside proved man to be sinful creatures requiring of God's salvation. The whole world should be made to see them to redeem man from his wicked ways.

She wasn't one to be after hitting a man of the cloth, but it was the closest she'd ever come, and running into Natasha allowed her to resist the urge. Natasha appeared as caught out as she was for being seen at such a display and took Stevie's arm to pull her around the corner and out of view of the public.

“You're safe.”

“Mostly. Rumlow--”

“I know. I was there when Alexander ordered the attack. My husband was not pleased when he found out you killed him.”

“Sorry, but I'm not apologizing for protecting myself and my friends.”

“No one is suggesting you should. Alexander considered Rumlow a friend as much as he can befriend anyone. Be prepared for repercussions. Maybe not now. He'll likely wait until you've relaxed your guard. So don't relax your guard.”

Stevie opened her mouth to say something only to snap it shut when Dr. Barton came around the corner, dressed in the expensive clothes bought off the backs of people like her.

“Mrs. Romanoff, my apologies for keeping you waiting. Would you like to talk privately in my office now?” He acknowledged Stevie with a tilt of his hat.

“Please.”

Stevie's gut twisted as she watched Dr. Barton lead Natasha away. Her throat ached from swallowing the desire to call out to her, because while she couldn't be certain what their business was, she could guess based on Natasha's desperation to get away from Alexander. The thought of her sitting on one of those stools and lifting her skirt to showcase herself left Stevie reeling.

She wound up being sick in the gutter again.


	11. When The Bough Breaks The Cradle Will Fall

A letter awaited Stevie when she returned to the inn. The creamy envelope didn't bear a return address nor did she recognize the handwriting. She collected it and an official looking envelope for Bucky from the front desk before making her way upstairs.

It was late and Bucky was already inside, Winter curled up on a bunch of burlap sacks and looking perkier than he had since the attack. She sat down on the side of the bed and offered him his mail before tearing into her own letter.

_My Dearest Friend,_

_An opportunity has presented itself that will allow me to make my own way in the world. You likely won't approve, but the money is good and the independence even better. I'll be working for Dr. Barton's traveling company, which will be leaving New Zealand soon and bound for the Americas._

_I enjoyed our time together and regret to cause you the distress of losing our connection. Finding like-minded people suffering from our affliction isn't easy, but I leave you in the understanding care of your husband and all the ladies in the Suffragette Society._

_Be safe and well._

_N. R._

So it was as she'd feared. A small part of her wanted to run after Natasha and beg her to stay, to come and live with them, to tell her once more they could protect her. But that was the very selfish part of her. It wasn't her place to rob Natasha of her independence or a lucrative career, if that's how Natasha felt about being used as a display model. It wasn't Stevie's place to agree or disagree.

It didn't stop her from snuffling back the tears, though.

“Hey, Stevie-love. Are you crying?”

She thrust the letter in his direction.

“Oh. Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I know your friendship was new, but she was important to you.”

“What about your mail?”

“It's nothing. Just business.”

Probably, it was her emotional day. More likely, it was her upcoming menses, but the cavalier comment irritated her. She would have liked for something to take her mind off Natasha's leaving.

“It's always business. You're keeping something from me, Bucky,” she snapped, “and I don't like it.”

And because they knew how to irritate each other, Bucky said, “The way you're keeping something from me? Like what Rumlow started with you?”

“Oh, this is not the same as that.”

“How so? And how would I know when you won't tell me about it. Something happened that night when you went for the doctor.”

“It was nothing.”

“So much nothing that you came home crying your eyes out? You want me to trust you, but I don't think you've ever trusted me.”

“Never trusted you.” She jerked her head back as though slapped. “You have no idea how much trust it took to let you see me, know my secret, touch me. I've trusted you when the end result could have been death or consignment to an institution, so don't you dare sit there and accuse me of that.”

“Then tell me.”

“He tried to rape me!”

Her admission buzzed inside the room like angry hornets.

“Christ. Stevie, why didn't you tell me?”

“Because he didn't succeed.”

“We made love right after-- Fuck, tell me that wasn't you seeking any kind of comfort.”

“You know what? It was me seeking comfort, but if you're asking if you took advantage of me, then no. I was in my right mind.”

“Sweetheart, you should have told me.”

“Then what? You would have gone after Rumlow, beaten him to death, and wound up being hanged for your troubles. Where would that leave me? Where would it leave us?”

Silence feel between them.

He reached out to offer comfort, but she wasn't of a mood for comfort. Right then, she wanted to lick her wounds and wallow in the misery of a lost friend. She would have to be alone again, with no one who understood what being different from others was like.

Maybe the world was right to condemn her. Maybe she deserved every harsh word that had been thrown at her. Maybe Natasha had left to get away from her exacting standards as much as to get away from Alexander. Maybe her husband was always sour with her because she wasn't a real wife.

Which was why she found herself, almost two weeks later, inside the small chapel where she'd been married to Bucky in Mackenzie. She dropped to her knees, her mother's rosary draped over her fingers, and prayed. There was little consolation in it, though. God wasn't listening.

The only willing ear she found was in the confessional where Father Gregory heard her confession, the sin of being born with a body marked by the world's sinfulness, the sin of murder, the sin of self-righteousness, and the sin of disobedience to her husband.

“When you say, child, that your body is marked by sin, what do you mean?”

The words were thick on her tongue, but she was desperate enough to say them to someone that she spat, “I was born deformed. Neither a man or woman. I was born a hermaphrodite.”

“I suggest you pray about this issue, Mrs. Barnes, and reevaluate your place in society. According to God's law, a man can't be married to another man, and if you bear the genitalia of a man, then so you should be considered one. Perhaps living in sin has finally put your conscience to unrest. Our conscience is our soul's way of steering us down the path Our Savior has planned for us.”

“But I-- We were legally married in this church.”

“You're not if you misrepresented yourself as a woman when you are in fact a man. Pray, child. Pray, and come to mass, and allow Our Savior to heal you of your deformations.”

She left feeling worse than when she'd gone in.

Those dark storm clouds she'd been living under since Christchurch burst open when she got home. Bucky was out tending the flock, so she sagged onto their bed and wept. She wept for Natasha and for herself, for every other person whose lives had been dictated by callus people who had little to no understanding of how a body worked. She wept for Bucky and for their marriage, for the chasm that seemed to have opened up between them.

Months passed. Nothing was the same after Christchurch where she'd bared the truth about Rumlow's attack only for Bucky to return the measure of trust with silence. The official-looking envelope wasn't her business, he claimed. He was a man and allowed to have his secrets. The one thing his silence screamed was _I don't trust you._

During that time, she missed her menses twice, and at first, she ignored it. The bleeding had never been regular in the first place, but the vomiting continued. On some level, she knew what the signs pointed to. But a woman like her successfully conceiving seemed farther out of reach than touching the stars, so she did nothing to address the symptoms until Bucky bundled her into the buckboard and dropped her off outside Dr. Erskine's office.

“You want me to come in with you?”

“No, I can manage.”

“I'll be down at the general store when you're done.”

It was indicative of the state of their marriage. All the earlier softness and affection had gone. Bucky had turned back into a rabid wolf ready to tear into the flesh of anyone who looked at him crossly. And it was all because of some piece of mail that she didn't dare dig around the house to find.

Dr. Erskine welcomed her, fixed her a cup of tea, and urged her to sit while they discussed her symptoms. There was no sure fire way to diagnose pregnancy, he claimed, but missing her menses and the resulting fatigue and sickness were good indications. He instructed her to treat herself as though she were with child, eat regular meals and get plenty of rest.

She had every intention of following his instructions, and couldn't get the wonder of the moment out of her mind, at least not until that wonder turned to apprehension. Alexander Pierce, Father Gregory, and several strange men headed in her direction. Apprehension turned quickly to dread.

“Mr. Connolly, my name is Dr. Edward Wright. Mr. Pierce and Father Gregory sent for me from England when they became aware of your condition. It's imperative, I think, that we get you into the right kind of treatment to correct your condition.”

“It's Mrs. Barnes,” she snapped, “and I'm not interested in any kind of treatment.”

“According to Father Gregory, you've admitted to being in possession of a male sex organ,” said Mr. Pierce. “That requires specialized care that Mr. Barnes isn't able to provide.”

“Does the sanctity of the confessional mean nothing to you, Father?”

“Your eternal soul is in the balance, Mr. Connolly.”

“I'm not a man, you fecking arseholes. I'm pregnant!”

She knew the moment Dr. Wright's expression turned gleeful that it was the wrong thing to say. A cloth being clamped over her mouth cut off the scream she attempted. The chloroform sent her into pitch blackness within seconds.

*

Timothy, a cigar clamped between his teeth, removed his bowler hat to mop sweat from his brow with a paisley-print handkerchief. He heckled some of the younger lads, boys more like it, for collapsing onto a bench after only two loads. The work would roughen them the way it had roughened him.

He gathered another crate, heaved it onto his shoulder, and started up the plank onto a ship bound for England. Just another normal day for Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader, or it was until he heard a familiar voice cursing in a thick, Irish accent and looked up to spy Stevie Barnes hissing and spitting at two constables dragging her aboard the ship. Ahead of them walked a stately sort of man, and on the dock stood none other than Alexander Pierce.

Concerned, he jumped decks via a set of stairs and moved to intercept Mrs. Barnes, who disappeared inside the guests' entrance wailing about her rights. Before he could make it, the door shut, and a ship's mate blocked his path with a reminder that ground crew weren't allowed inside guest areas.

So he reversed direction and hurried down the gangway. “What in the Almighty is going on?” he demanded upon standing chest to chest with Mr. Pierce.

Mr. Pierce, who stood several inches shorter than Timothy, stepped back. His ever-present bodyguards melted from the surroundings to flank him.

Timothy wasn't afraid of making a cock-up of things, but there was something more important than bashing anyone's head in: finding out what the Hell was going on with Stevie. He said as much while removing his had to wipe his brow again.

“There is no Mrs. Barnes,” Mr. Pierce informed him. “The person you knew as Mrs. Barnes is actually Mr. Connolly and has been masquerading as a woman since using your fare to leave Ireland. As you can see, you've been duped, Mr. Cadwallader. Don't feel too badly. A man of your intelligence and birth, you can hardly be blamed for--”

Timothy hit him anyway, but that one good punch was all he got in before Pierce's goons were on him, and Goddamn it, he didn't have time for a brawl on the pier of Invercargill. That one hit made him feel pretty damn good, but it also cost him a night in lock up where he could see the ship set sail but couldn't do a thing to stop it.

The next morning, though, one of his lads brought down the coins necessary to pay his fine, and as soon as he was free, he borrowed a horse from his friend down at the livery and rode into Mackenzie. Gabe's general store was the center of a cyclone.

Bucky was there raging about Stevie being gone. The more level-headed Gabe stood putting together search parties. Even Mr. and Mrs. Stark had turned out with extra horses to widen the search area.

“What makes you think she's run away again?” asked Gabe.

“I dropped her off at the doc's place a couple days ago, and I ain't seen her since. We've been fighting since Christchurch over something stupid. I got a letter from my uncle.”

“Which uncle?” Dernier asked.

“The Uncle.”

A collective “oh” sounded from the Howling Commandos in attendance. Everyone knew about that uncle, the one who'd accused him of murder and had him put on trial in the English courts.

“What did the letter say?” asked Timothy.

“He wants me to come home. Says they found evidence exonerating me of my parents' deaths.”

Silence settled over the shop interior as they digested the consequences of that information.

“What does that mean for you?” Gabe inquired.

“Means fucking shite as far as I'm concerned. Him and his kid can grovel as much as they want. They're the ones who didn't believe me to begin with. What's important is getting Stevie home. She says I don't trust her, so can we please fucking do something instead sitting here?”

“Of course we'll do something,” said Mrs. Stark. “But you haven't slept in two days. Leave the search to us while you get some rest and eat something.”

“Begging your pardon, madam, but that won't be necessary. I know where Stevie is.”

Bucky was off the stool and in his face in the blink of an eye, fists clamped around the lapels of Timothy's jacket and face full of anxiety. He'd never seen Bucky like this before, completely unhinged. This wasn't just anger. It wasn't just a fit of temper; it was real fear. The poor bastard had gone and fallen in love with his mail order bride.

Lucky for them, they arrived back in Invercargill just as another ship was due to depart for England. Timothy wasn't sure the captain, Sam Wilson, was ready for the Howling Commandos because every damn one of them, even His Eminence Monty Falsworth, bounded up the gangway with tickets.

Also lucky for them? Sam Wilson remembered little Stevie Connolly, had taken a liking to her during her trip over from Ireland, and raised anchor a full day ahead of schedule.

The real hard part of the whole thing was keeping Bucky from beating anyone's brains in, including the good captain, who had the misfortune of suggesting he hoped Mrs. Barnes had a better trip to England than she had from Ireland. The seasickness had hit her hard and kept her confined for much of her trip.

Everyone knew nothing Mr. Pierce had up his sleeve would involve making Stevie comfortable or ensuring she ate enough and got enough sunshine to prevent her from sickening on the journey.

Timothy bundled Bucky back to the cabin they shared to avoid a fight and shoved him down on the bed. “Haud yer wheesht, Barnes,” he snapped when it looked like Bucky might start railing again.

Bucky slumped. “I haven't heard your Scottish brogue in years.”

“You're trying me patience, boy. Brings out the Scotch in me.”

“If I don't get her back... Do you know what they'll do to her in one of those asylums?”

“It's true, then?”

“No.” He opened his mouth to continue, but Timothy stayed him.

“That's all I need to know, boy. Long as she didn't trick you into something you weren't wanting, then it don't matter to me what she's got under that skirt o' hers.”

Bucky's relief was palpable. “She's the best thing that ever happened to me. The doc said she's probably pregnant. She's got all the signs, he said. They've taken her away across the sea to a place that'd make any sane man shudder, and she's in such a delicate condition.”

Timothy snorted. “Ain't nothing 'bout Stevie Barnes that's delicate, you ignorant sasanach. Mark me words. Anyone's going to get through this, it's your wife. So calm down and stop trying to fight your way to England. It ain't going to get you there any faster.”

*

Her mum always claimed she would live because of sheer stubbornness. No matter how small she had been at birth, no matter how many times she'd been ill, being a stubborn Irish lass would get her through just about any trial as long as she held onto the Good Lord.

Stevie wasn't so sure about the Good Lord after Father Gregory's betrayal, but there was something to be said for stubbornness. It was the only reason she lasted the long months at sea as the ship was tossed about through storms and as sickness spread through passengers in third class, who were all crammed together with no fresh air and not enough food.

Taking sick didn't surprise her. Dr. Wright finding out and removing her away to his own private cabin did. He wanted to protect his investment, he claimed. What better way to climb into the annals of medical history than to study a hermaphrodite successfully conceiving.

She threw one of his books at him and told him it wasn't like that; she didn't have a magical fanny. She was a woman who happened to have an underdeveloped cock, and if he used that word about her again, she'd rip his teeth out one at a time.

He took to staying in the cabin with the constables he'd brought over from England after that.

Not only was she grateful for the privacy, she was able to marvel at the thickening of her waist and the small swell of her abdomen, clear signs Dr. Erskine had been right about her pregnancy. While she was thrilled, she was also terrified of getting attached to the idea. Given her size and health, every day she remained pregnant was a miracle. If only she could bundle that little blessing and hold it inside her with stubbornness alone, somehow imbue the developing child with the same stubbornness that had kept her alive all these long years.

Her sickness passed by the time they reached England. She was still weak, so much so that Dr. Wright called for a cab to take them from the dock to his hospital where they settled her into a room with fresh air and plenty of light. She was lucky in that regard. Most patients weren't treated so well. Some subsisted in back wards, chained to walls and stripped naked for easy cleaning.

As soon as she delivered, that could be her fate, and who knew what would happen to her child.

Dr. Wright kept a close eye on her as the months passed inside the asylum: first one, then two. His daily check-ups weren't the humiliating part. He had a vested interest in keeping her and her pregnancy intact. The indignity of it all was the medical students he brought in to observe while he administered her care, how he showed her off to them like a prime side of beef. They stood there taking notes. Some looked horrified and left the room. Most were simply fascinated at the oddity she was.

And that's all she was to them, not a person, not someone with hopes and dreams, not a wife terribly missing her husband and ashamed of the way she'd pushed him away since Christchurch. She would give anything to have those moments back. He likely wasn't even looking for her anymore. Why trouble himself when she had been so cruel to him?

As time passed, her emotions grew worse. She could hardly marvel at the size of her stomach, which she could no longer hide beneath her clothing. Tears became a daily occurrence. She could hear her mother's phantom voice telling her to get up, to not give in, to fight, but she was weak, tired, homesick, and combative with the nuns who encouraged her to move around and walk in the gardens.

Which was why, during her third month at the hospital, she was startled by men in uniform barging into her room. They weren't the normal constables. These weren't just any sorts of armed guards. They wore the red coats and black hats of the royal guard.

Behind them came Bucky. At least she thought it was Bucky.

Stevie blinked.

He wore tailored trousers in white, a fitted jacket the color of red wine, and a shirt with a high collar done up with a cravat. A top hat completed the ensemble. He'd pulled his hair back into a long tail, and someone had managed to trim his beard into something tamer, but his eyes were the same stormy blue. Those eyes were framed with more lines than before, and they widened upon seeing her.

“Stevie-love. Good Christ, you're all right.”

Confusion struck her mute, but she sat up in bed to better see him and allowed him to kneel before her, hands enfolding hers and bringing them to his lips.

“Lord's name,” she managed.

The chastisement made him smile. “Look at you. What have they been doing to you? They haven't been taking care of you, that's for certain. Are you ill? What about the baby?” Both hands dropped to frame her stomach, now six months along, and something wondrous crossed his features. Like he was in awe of the life they'd created.

“Why are you here?” she asked. Which was likely a stupid question, so she asked, “How are you here? How did you even know? What are you wearing?” She eased back to look at him again.

“I can answer all those questions, but let's get you out of here first.”

“They won't let me leave. They know about--” She didn't bother finishing.

He hushed her with a kiss. “As far as the world's concerned, you're my wife, Stevie Barnes. Dr. Wright is being investigated for kidnapping. Father Gregory has been recalled by the archbishop for revealing information made in a confessional, and Mr. Pierce is going to die as soon as we get home and I challenge him to a duel.”

Blood left her cheeks. “Bucky, no. Don't risk that. We have a baby to think about. Don't even chance leaving me without you and this child.”

Bucky looked up at the guards, who filed from the room. One of his arms snaked around her waist to help her to her feet, and when months of inactivity made walking difficult, he swung her into his arms to carry her out like some knight of old. They followed the guards from the facility. Near the front door, Mr. Wright stood wringing his hands and bowing, calling Bucky “my lord.”

Something was going on here, and Stevie was too exhausted, delirious, and happy to figure it out.


	12. And Down Will Come Baby Cradle And All

The wheels of the carriage clattered over cobblestones as their four hour journey came to an end in the courtyard of an actual castle. Stevie had slept most of the way, so they hadn't had a chance to talk. Now, more questions bounced on her tongue. Because there was a castle, and Bucky was a “my lord,” and what the ever-loving Christ was going on?

Bucky disembarked and helped her down where she managed to stand on her own two feet in the bright sunshine, a rare pleasant day amidst the usual rain. She kept her hand on his forearm in the event she lost her balance as they climbed a set of stairs and passed through double doors into a grand foyer. The floors were marble, and an oak staircase stood across those floors that led to another storey.

“Bucky, what is--”

A male voice interrupted her before she could finish the question. She looked up to watch an aging man descend the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other clutching a cane, as he walked with a noticeable limp.

“Uncle, this is my wife, Stevie. My uncle, William Barnes, Duke of Edgemoor.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Barnes. The way our James speaks about you, you must be a rare jewel indeed. Already carrying on the family name, I see.” The elderly man grinned at Bucky and nudged him with an elbow. “Please, don't leave your wife standing while she's with child. Come into the salon for tea.”

The salon was bigger than their house back in New Zealand but was made to feel intimate by the chair and sofa placements and elegant tables bearing vases of flowers. Pink wallpaper brightened the room. She skimmed her fingers across the surface in stunned surprise. This place was even fancier than Mrs. Stark's residence.

Bucky helped her sit in a cushioned chair, and she rested her palms on the swelling of her womb. This was likely not how one should greet a nobleman. She wasn't bathed and had been wearing the same smock for the past week. She must look terrible to someone like William Barnes.

Facts descended on her faster than she could process them, so her first comment was, “You're British? We can't be married anymore.”

Bucky laughed. His uncle looked a little bemused. “Stevie has strong feelings about England's policies in northern Ireland. My uncle is a duke, Stevie-love. That don't make me one.”

“Doesn't make you one,” William corrected. “Australia and New Zealand have done terrible things to your language, James.”

“Remind me again whose fault it was I wound up in the penal colony?” Bucky's tone sharpened.

“Arthur saw what he saw, James, and at the time, it was the best and only information available to us. You must admit it looked damning when you ran from your father's suite covered in his blood.”

“I was fourteen, Your Grace,” he spat, “and had found my father in a pool of his own blood.”

“Perhaps we shouldn't discuss this in front of your wife in her condition,” suggested William.

The aggression between them was a palpable force.

“Perhaps we shouldn't discuss--” Bucky stopped and took a deep breath. A muscle in his jaw ticked. When he next spoke, he sounded less caustic. “Now that Her Majesty has seen fit to restore my title, lands, and funds, we won't depend upon your hospitality long.”

“Yes,” Stevie interrupted, “I was wondering when we could get back home. Sorry, Your Grace, I don't mean to imply ill toward your hospitality. I'm just missing home.”

Returning home, it turned out, was vetoed, not just by Bucky but by the duke's physician, who came to see her the following morning. Her delicate condition prevented a long voyage at sea. They would remain in England until after the baby was born, and while she chafed under the oppressive grandeur of Duke William's home, she understood the precaution to be necessary.

They didn't stay long; the tension between uncle and nephew grew seven heads and called itself a hydra, so he moved them the following week to a London townhouse his parents, George and Winnifred Barnes, had purchased. It was only then, when they were moving in and workers and servants referred to Bucky as “my lord,” that she realized Bucky wasn't just the nephew of a duke. He was the Marquess of Dunwood.

Because that was her life now.

Getting used to being referred to as Lady Stevie, the marchioness of Dunwood wasn't happening.

Their new home was white brick, five stories tall, and contained two balconies overlooking a manicured sidewalk. Once heavy drapes were thrown back, the many windows allowed sunlight to flood the home, sometimes glinting off wallpaper patterned with silver accents.

She stood on a balcony the evening of their first night there looking over the city. Part of her wanted to be happy. She was living one of those fantasy stories where a commoner married into nobility and lived a life of wealth and luxury. A selfish voice told her to enjoy it. But like Ireland, there were slums in London filled with depravity and desperation. What was she to deserve such a life? She was a street rat from Ireland, a murderer, born into poverty and meant to die in poverty.

Bucky stepped outside with her, an arm going around her waist to flatten across her womb.

“Penny for your thoughts, Stevie-love.”

The air was thick, she realized. Even in a wealthy neighborhood far removed from the industrial centers. She coughed on a breath. “It's all surreal. Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“There wasn't a point. I was the heir to the Marquess of Dunwood, accused of murdering my parents, and shipped off to Australia because the judicial system didn't want to dirty their hands sentencing someone of the peerage to death. It didn't affect our lives in New Zealand. Does it matter to you?”

“I don't know.”

“That's fair.” He swayed her gently. “The only reason it matters to me is because it gave me the means to get here in time to save you from that gutter rat who calls himself a doctor. Keeping you locked up like that, showing you off like you were an oddity. I could throttle him.”

“Please don't. I've just gotten used to living in New Zealand. I'd hate to move to Australia.”

He chuckled and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“We'll stay here until the baby is healthy enough to travel. Then we'll return home. None of this is appealing to me anymore. It may have been at one point, but not anymore. What matters is you, our child, our home. Have I told you that I love you?”

She hummed and leaned into his solid body. “I don't remember. Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

“Tá mé i ngrá leat.”

*

One thing about being the Marchioness of Dunwood Stevie found out quickly was the myriad of fashion choices. She wasn't allowed to go about her daily activities in trousers or in modest dresses suited for working around the farm. Fashion restrictions weren't only placed on her clothing choices, but on her body itself.

She'd worn corsets most of her life to help mold her shape toward the feminine. The tailor Bucky brought to the house to create a wardrobe for her placed her in a maternity corset that made it nigh impossible to breathe. Her stomach wasn't so obvious, but by the end of the first night wearing it, she was in so much pain Bucky sat for an hour massaging her back and stomach.

“Why would you wear something that constricted the baby?”

“Ask that torturer you brought to the house, Barnes,” she snapped.

The following day, she refused to wear the corset, much to the tailor's horror. Thankfully, she could get away with wearing light dresses and wrappers in the house, which were much easier on her body, but Bucky was obliged to accept an invitation to a formal occasion thrown in his honor by his uncle. 

That meant an entirely new dress made of purple brocade. Yards of cloth draped over her body the night of the ball. White lace decorated the sleeves and collar. A bustle made her rear end look like a horse's ass. The front skirting was made up of an underskirt and an apron that draped in such a way as to make her pregnancy less obvious. Because apparently Victorian society thought pregnant women should be heard and not seen and preferably not heard either.

Bucky took her hand to help her from the carriage at Uncle William's castle. Her hair was done up in a series of braids, and moonlight caught on the jewels her husband had brought home for her.

“If my mum could see me now, she'd faint straight away.”

Bucky chuckled. “Well, I think you look lovely.” And he leaned in for a brief kiss.

That was also something she'd noticed. Londoners displayed affection the way an angry dog chased a cat. Men and women didn't walk hand in hand. Unmarried couples were always chaperoned. Husbands and wives shared separate beds! Bucky hadn't even tried to lay that one on her. He knew well enough she'd sleep in a separate bed only if divorce papers were signed between them.

A butler took her wrap, and they crossed the foyer and went through a set of open doors into the ballroom. Many guests were already present, but the dancing hadn't started. People mingled in different groups and snacked on finger foods and glasses of chilled champagne, but the chatter died down upon Bucky's appearance. They parted to make way. Stevie said something about Moses and the Red Sea that had Bucky laughing again.

His laughter drew a frown from their host, who stood toward the rear of the room holding court with his peers, all men dressed in elegant jackets and neat cravats.

“Your Highness,” Duke William began, “may I present my nephew, James Barnes coupled with his wife, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky bowed.

Stevie opened her mouth to say something about the English royalty but thought better of it and dipped into what she figured was the most inelegant curtsey of her life. They were likely to be kicked out of England and sent back to New Zealand before the night was over.

The prince, whose name escaped her, greeted Bucky in a rather jovial manner, congratulating him on his wife and impending heir. After the introductions, she was swept away from the men to sit with the wives of the various dignitaries. They stared at her. They whispered behind their fans. She was the oddity from New Zealand who'd spent time in an asylum.

None were shy about asking either. Lady Jane Adcock, the boldest of the bunch, said, “How terrible for you. Were they extraordinarily cruel?” She turned to her peers to clarify. “I heard they showed her off to medical students. Is it true, Lady Stíofáinín, that the medical students touched you?”

“They're probably the only ones willing to touch the poor dear,” chortled Lady Abigail.

Stevie could put up with a lot, but she hadn't grown up in polite society and wasn't about to tolerate being made the fool of. She said, “Use the brains the Good Lord gave you, Lady Abigail. Clearly, my husband doesn't have trouble touching me judging by the size of my belly.”

Her waspish response sent the good ladies twittering behind their fans like a bunch of birds, and Stevie withdrew from the seating area to swish her way across the ballroom floor to find more enjoyable and less heartless entertainment.

Before long, she found herself inside a room where men gambled and played billiards. If her presence had shocked the good ladies of the peerage, it nearly sent the lords into fits of vapors, all except for one man, who pulled out a chair for her to join their table.

“Adam Bird, my lady.”

“Sorry, but I'm new to London. The name doesn't ring a bell.”

He scoffed. “You've not heard of Mr. Bird, the great poet extraordinaire.”

“No, Sir.”

“Do you play poker, my lady?”

“A lady? Play poker?” She pressed a hand to her chest.

Other men sitting at the same table chuckled.

“Show me.”

By the end of the evening, Stevie, who knew how to hustle like every good street urchin, had a stack of bills folded into her purse and shared a drink with Mr. Bird. He went so far as to proposition her outside the powder room which was where she found out he was a man who happened to have been born with a cunt. They became fast friends.

Their friendship blossomed when he came calling the following afternoon where the butler showed him into the green salon. Because apparently houses for the nobility came with more than one salon. She entered shortly after his arrival in a saffron skirt and a floor length wrapper. Exhaustion from last night made sitting difficult, so Mr. Bird helped her into the chair, much to the displeasure of the butler, who looked like he had no intention of leaving.

“Oh for Christ sake-- Lord's name. Mr. Brown, you can go about the remainder of your duties.”

“Leaving you alone with Mr. Bird would be improper while your husband is out of the house.”

“What do you think he's after doing? Knocking me up?”

Poor Mr. Brown blanched and hurried from the room. Not long after, tea came by way of a maid, who was sure to look for any improper details, such as the location of their hands and the smoothness of their garments. There must have been a lot of adultery going on in England.

She said so aloud once the maid had left. “Is there a great deal of lads getting their clackers up against a married woman's box?”

“You have seen these stuffed English peacocks, yes? Faces like swine, they've got.”

“Except for my stuffed English peacock.”

“Except for him.”

They shared a laugh and teas and cakes before Mr. Bird took his leave, and Stevie thought of tormenting Mr. Brown by asking if he'd like to check for enemy infiltration into her womb. Her feet decided against it. Both were swollen, so she made her way upstairs with the maid's help and took to bed for an early afternoon nap. Happy dreams carried her through until she woke to Bucky sliding onto the side of the bed, at which point, she woke with a smile.

The wonder on his face as he touched her cheek made her heart skip a few beats. His hand traveled over a swollen breast and down to palm her stomach. A soft sigh escaped him. He stretched out and rested his head against her bosom so he could whisper sweet nothings to their child.

“What are we going to name them?” he asked.

“Naming the baby before their first breath is bad luck.”

Bucky froze only to relax and reply, “Don't talk like that, Stevie-love.”

She hushed him with a hand in his hair, but it was a possibility they both needed to consider. The chances of her delivering a healthy baby and surviving the birth were so slim that thinking about it frightened her. So she didn't think about it. She changed the subject instead to ask about his day.

“Uncle William is pitching a fucking fit because I won't stay and take my position in his company alongside Arthur. He should have thought about that before he brought me up on charges of murder, that's what I say. Mr. Brown tells me your day was far more entertaining. You may have given him an apoplectic fit.”

“He shouldn't have been hovering like I was after mounting Mr. Bird like a horse.”

“Frederick is an old traditionalist. Try to go a little easy on him, Stevie-love.”

“Me?”

Laughing, he rolled onto his back and leaned up for a kiss. “My fiery Irish harridan.”

Meetings with Mr. Bird became regular, and in some small way, he soothed some of the hurt of losing Natasha, filling a hole that longed for the companionship of someone who understood what it was like to exist outside the realm of social norms. One afternoon, Mr. Bird dressed her in her maternity corset—still uncomfortable but necessary for their outing—and a full suit and cravat. A fake mustache went a long way toward masquerading her feminine side, enough so she could pass herself off as a plump gentleman of some standing.

Mr. Bird showed his credentials at the door of a gentleman's club where they were seated and given sherry and dry gin. The atmosphere was cloudy with smoke, and most of the neighboring tables were taken up by men wearing fine suits doing business over a lunch of steak and other delicacies.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, voice low.

“Because ladies aren't allowed, and isn't it wonderful to be naughty and flout the social norms? Everyone else does it. They're just as discreet as we are. Take for example Lord Sutcliff.” Adam pointed to a portly man in his mid fifties. “He has two mistresses and three illegitimate children.”

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, stop pointing.” She snatches his hand out of the air and plasters it to the table.

Laughing, Adam continued, “Edward Groves is a respected member of parliament. Her real name is Charlotte Glover.”

“Christ Almighty. There are more people like us?”

“Love, there have been people like us since God created Adam and Eve. Do you read?” He lit a cigar and offered it to her.

Stevie glanced all around to see if anyone was watching or had noticed, but the other patrons continued with their various conversation, paying not a bit of attention to them. She put the cigar to her lips and inhaled a lungful of smoke. Coughing seized her.

Reaching across the table, Adam patted her back. “You're not supposed to inhale, love. Just let the flavor sit on your tongue.”

So she tried again, pairing the cigar with sips of sherry at his recommendation, and the realization of how unfair the world was came to her yet again. Men were allowed these freedoms, the smoky gentleman's clubs with juicy steak, cigars, and sherry. What were women allowed? And why did she have to choose between the two? Just because some doctors and priests got together and decided what they thought to be right and wrong? She couldn't accept that. Not after what Father Gregory had done.

She sat back and enjoyed the flavor of the cigar, the atmosphere, and Adam's pleasant company.

To answer his earlier question, she said, “I can read now.”

“Have you read anything by Charles Darwin?”

She shook her head.

“I'll lend you my copies of some of his works. Fascinating reading and the theory of natural selection wherein the strongest specimens of any given species breed and pass along their traits to the next generation, thus enhancing and strengthening future generations. Those who are weak die off.”

“Then how did I successfully manage to breed?”

“You must be one of the strong ones.”

“I'm so afraid of what's coming. If I could stop it, I would. I'd keep this baby inside me where we're both safe and neither of us can die.”

But childbirth was inevitable, and the slow march of days as fall turned into winter led her closer to the actual event. Having Dr. Erskine would have been a great comfort, but he couldn't get from New Zealand to England in such a short amount of time, so they settled on Dr. Bloom, a specialist who wasn't motivated by the fame of successfully delivering a healthy child from someone like Stevie. He refused to call her a freak of nature, arguing that the body's chemicals were so delicate that any slightest shift in hormone could cause considerable exterior change.

Mr. Bird was there when the first contractions started, and like most men, he was about as useful in childbirth as a rock. She sent him to the office where Bucky spent most days putting his affairs in order for their return trip home and asked Mr. Brown to send for the doctor. Frederick was slightly more useful. He didn't panic until she attempted the stairs to return to her bedroom without help.

“Mrs. Barnes!” He rushed to take her elbow. “Allow me to help.”

“Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, I can climb a set of stairs on my own.”

After attempting the feat and giving him a smug look, the pain shooting across her middle and building her back turned into a sharper cramp that had her hissing and massaging at tense muscles. She became grateful for Mr. Brown's attention, then, as he prevented her from taking a tumble back down the stairs. He even helped her into bed without bringing up every time she'd irritated him, cursed at him, or turned several more of his hairs gray.

Childbirth started slowly for Stevie, leaving her plenty of time to look up at the ceiling, prayers tumbling like water over rocks from her lips because each contraction was more painful than the last. Each breath seemed more labored. Each bead of sweat made her feel that much more exhausted.

Doctor Bloom came. The door stayed closed after his arrival. Bucky's voice drifted through the house. Asking for him did nothing good. Men, at least those who weren't physicians, had no place in the birthing room the same way women had no place in business.

“I'm neither man nor woman,” she snapped at him, “so let my husband in here.”

Such thoughts had haunted her for some time, the idea she could shed her femininity like a snake skin and emerge into the skin of a man. Not even doctors could reasonably say one way or another. So because she could have a baby, that made her a woman? But what about the parts that made her a man? What about the priest who screamed that the presence of a penis signified masculinity? And why did she need doctors or priests to tell her who she was?

Bucky was allowed in for a few minutes. He rushed to her bedside to take her hand between his own.

“I'm here, Stevie-love.”

“If I don't survive--”

“None of that talk,” he said, voice stern.

“Face the reality, Buck. Someone my size giving birth--”

“I won't hear it.”

“Listen to me.” She grabbed his chin to force him to make eye contact. “My mum sometimes worked in midwifery. When women were too small and babies too big, she had to cut them open to take the baby. The doctor might have to cut me open, sweetheart.”

“You're not saying goodbye, God damn it.”

“Lord's name,” she said, tone turning fond as she smoothed fingers down the stubble on his cheek.

“Please don't leave me,” he whispered.

A contraction twisted her body. She couldn't swallow a groan and clenched both hands in the sweat-soaked sheets on which she laid. The doctor's assistant rushed Bucky from the room, and this time, Stevie didn't protest. If she died, there was no need for him to watch.

Once the contraction let up, she closed her eyes. The next time she opened them, it was night. A fire cracked in the hearth, and the bedroom had become stale and suffocating. Both doctor and assistant napped in chairs on either side of the bed, but there was also a new face: Mr. Bird. Or rather, Mr. Bird wearing a cotton dress and free of the mustache he normally kept glued to his face.

“Adam?”

He stirred, rose, and came to sit on her bedside. The mattress dipped under his weight. “Evelyn for now. Silly social constructs that it's bad luck for men to be inside a birthing suite if they haven't gone to medical school. Didn't want to leave you alone through this.”

Smiling hurt. Even her hair hurt, she figured.

“You've been in and out for some time. The baby is breach. After you've rested, Doctor Bloom will attempt to turn it manually. If that doesn't work, they'll need to preform a cesarean section.”

“Bucky won't hear the possibility of my death. Promise me you'll help him get home to New Zealand with the baby. I want the baby reared there with all our friends to help and support him.”

“I promise, but look, there's no need to give up. You're a spitfire, Stevie. You'll survive this just to spite the medical world that's been so cruel to you.”

Smiling hurt again. Exhaustion hurt. Her heart hurt.

But none of her fears prepared her for Doctor Bloom when he bustled into the room with two nurses and the real work began. She passed out while the baby was being manually turned. Came to with the acrid scent of smelling salts and distant voices telling her to push, with Adam's hand holding hers in a firm grip and Doctor Bloom telling her to breathe and push again.

Minutes might have passed, or maybe it was hours. Could have been days for all she knew. Inside the suite, there was nothing but sweat and pain and fear and determination and one final push that brought a rush of relief. Then came the interminable wait.

“It's not crying,” she breathed, barely about to speak. “Why isn't it crying?”

Someone mentioned stillbirth.

Stevie couldn't accept it. Her child had to live.

A sharp slap cracked the silence. Then? A weak wail.


	13. Home Sweet Home

People gathered on the pier cheered when Stevie, dressed in the plainer style of the colony, walked down the gangway off Captain Wilson's ship. Shannon Barnes, a burly six month old who took more after her father than her mother, stuffed a fist in her mouth.

“She gets that from you, Stevie-lass.”

“Gets what from me?”

“Her big mouth.”

Stevie slapped her husband's shoulder, causing him to grunt, but the next thing she knew, they were being surrounded by people from town. Gabe Jones and the rest of the Howling Commandos, the Coulsons with their new daughter, Daisy, the Starks, all the ladies from the Suffragette movement. The only face missing was the one Stevie's heart most ached to see: Natasha's. A few heads of red hair bobbed around, but none belonged to her old friend.

When greetings were had and people cooed over the new baby, Gabe helped her aboard his buckboard while Bucky piled their luggage in the back. She settled Shannon on her lap and allowed the baby to play with a pendant necklace she now wore, one that contained locks of Bucky's and Shannon's hair.

Senior Sergeant Carter approached and informed her, “We've had constables out at your place while you were gone keeping an eye on things. Most things seem to have calmed down now that Rumlow is out of the picture, but if you have any trouble, do let us know.”

Goosebumps prickled her skin as she felt overwhelmed by the sensation of being watched. From a distance, she spied a tailored gray suit and fashionable hat. Alexander Pierce stood on the sidewalk out front of the bank. Their eyes met, hers steadfast, his blank. Whatever he felt, he was good at hiding behind a mask of stoicism.

“I doubt we've heard the last of Mr. Pierce,” she finally said to Peggy.

“He hasn't made attempts against the co-op while you were gone. Evidence shows Mr. Rumlow could have been acting alone at the time of the attack.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Peggy shook her head. “Just keep your head down. He'll play his hand eventually. And watch out for that precious sweetheart, but don't bother asking me to babysit. I'm rubbish with children.”

Their brief conversation came to an end when Gabe and Bucky boarded their conveyance. Gabe took up the reins, clicked his tongue, and snapped the leather to encourage the horses into motion. Everyone else followed them aboard their own wagons as they made the trek to the McKenzie basin.

It was near dark by the time they topped a hill and saw their little home from a distance. Smoke billowed from the chimney. Lights were on inside. Rangi and Rui stepped onto the porch when the buckboard rolled to a stop, and Winter pushed past their legs to rush into the yard.

Bucky leaped down to tussle with their mutt while Stevie chose the more dignified route: allowing Gabe to take Shannon while she climbed down herself. Shannon looked up at Gabe with her huge, blue eyes, and promptly stuffed her fist back in her mouth.

“Does she ever stop sucking on that thing?” asked Gabe.

“She needs to nurse.”

“Well, I can't be a part of that, so you go do that thing while I help Bucky with the baggage. Rangi, you're gonna want to help us if you know what's good for you!”

“I've seen my woman nourish our babies before. It's only you pākehā who get terrified of watching your women nurse your children.”

“You calling me a coward?”

Both men postured, but they came out laughing after a moment or two, causing Stevie to roll her eyes at their antics, take her baby, and leave them to their rough-housing. Rui joined her inside where her own children were sitting at the table for supper.

“Sit. Nurse the baby and eat.”

Coming home to a warm house and a hot meal was more than she'd thought to ask for, and it was with a sigh that she unbuttoned her blouse and released one of her swollen breasts to allow Shannon to suckle. Just having the pressure of her milk taken off her chest was a delight, so she slumped against the chair back to watch the sweet thing Bucky and she had made making smacking noises and little grunts while she fed. This little life had changed hers so much.

Rui and she talked through dinner. They'd been keeping an eye on the place as well, ensuring the sheep and animals were fed and looked after, making sure certain people didn't come nosing around where they weren't wanted, and it was like Senior Sergeant Carter had said; the place had been quiet.

Things remained that way over the following weeks. They settled back into a familiar routine, one in which Stevie was more comfortable than her life in England. She wrote to Mr. Bird often, though it took mail so long to pass between the colony and England that she didn't expect to hear anything back from him any time soon. She even wrote to Natasha, though the only address she had belonged to Dr. Barton's Traveling Museum of the Weird and Unusual. She could only hope Natasha got the letters.

She stayed closer to the house because of the baby, but it wasn't a bad way of doing things when it was the heart of summer and Bucky could strip down to his union suit and allow ladles of water to cascade over his head and chest to cool himself from a long day. The way his undergarment clung to the musculature of his body reminded her that she was a married woman in need of her conjugal rights.

They tumbled into bed that evening and made quiet love what with Shannon sleeping in a crib at the foot of their bed. Bucky swallowed her sounds when he slipped inside her, both her thighs wrapped around his hips as his body loomed above hers. She slid her fingers into his hair to gather it away from his face so they could kiss, so their mouths could mimic what their lower halves were doing.

Gasping, she pressed a palm against the headboard while his thrusts intensified to keep herself from hitting it. Her other hand slid down his side to allow fingers to clench in the meat of his buttocks. He shifted a knee to spread his arse cheeks farther apart. It wasn't the first time he'd done it, and she knew it for the silent request it was. Her fingers pressed against and massaged his hole until he was trembling, until his sweat dripped from his forehead onto hers.

Pressing her finger just inside made him muffle a groan against her throat. Crooking said finger a certain way made him orgasm, and the feeling of his seed pumping into her made her come with several curse words and her body locking around him to beg him not to roll away too quickly.

It was almost like they didn't have a care in the world. They had plenty of money in the bank. Their baby was healthy as a horse and didn't seem to have inherited any of Stevie's frailness. The sheep were coming along nicely. Bucky cleared the northern field to plant crops next season. Winter got a neighbor's dog pregnant, and they adopted one of the puppies for Shannon, who loved to sit on the front porch with the bundle of fur napping beside her.

Until they woke one night to frightened screams from their animals and their barn engulfed with fire. Both of them shot out of bed and raced outside. Bucky, barefoot, ran toward the front door and fumbled with the latch, but it was hot and burned his hand. Stevie followed him with every intention of helping. Those were her livestock, too. Stomper and Chomper's screams of desperation tore into her.

“Get back to the house!”

“Stop trying to pro--”

“You'll breathe in this smoke and have an attack. You ain't no good to me lying on the floor of the barn coughing your lungs out,” he shouted over the fire.

As much as she hated it, he was right. Besides, she could hear Shannon screaming, so she ran toward the porch, past the exoskeleton that would some day be the new addition for their growing family, and dashed inside to find Shannon trying to climb from her crib. Bundling the baby into a blanket, she eased her into the flax basket Rui had helped her make, and strapped it to her back.

She might not be able to run into a burning building, but she could be there with buckets of water in case Bucky caught his fool head on fire. Good thing she thought ahead, too. He finally found a way in through an open side door and kicked open the main doors. When he came barreling out with Chomper and Stomper, their eyes covered with blankets, she doused embers clinging to the horses' manes.

The geese flocked out the open doors, so they were safe, but he still had to go back inside to release the sheep from their pens. And they were less reluctant to face the flames burning all around them. Winter nipped at their heels, driving them forward, herding them toward the open doors.

Bucky whistled and shouted commands their faithful dog obeyed despite the fire and the heat, but a beam cracked and came down, narrowly avoiding striking her husband. She shouted for him to leave the sheep and get the fecking Hell out of the barn. They could buy more sheep. She didn't want any other husband, but Bucky was a stubborn man. He refused to run to safety and continued driving the sheep along with Winter.

Which was why it was such a good idea for her have buckets of water ready. Another beam broke and showered down embers. Bucky's union suit caught as the sheep finally bolted outside, her husband following. She doused him with water, threw herself atop him, and patted him down to be extra cautious and to secretly look for any embers that might have reached his skin.

Meanwhile, he coughed and sputtered, spitting water and ash from his mouth as his muscles trembled. “I'm okay,” he grumbled. “Sweetheart, I ain't hurt.”

“You giant arse. I told you to leave the sheep.”

“Stevie-love, you're crying.”

“I am not!”

He cupped her face in both hands and used his thumbs to wipe away tears she hadn't realized were tracking down her soot-stained cheeks. The moisture, he pressed to his own lips to suck away her tears. For a moment, they pressed their foreheads together, shared breath, shared a heartbeat.

“You could have died,” she breathed against his lips. “Shannon could have lost her papa tonight.”

“But she didn't.”

Shannon, who seemed fed up with the commotion, finally started wailing from the basket still strapped to Stevie's back. Little fists pummeled the back of her head and grabbed fistfuls of hair to yank, causing breath to hiss through Stevie's teeth.

Bucky sat up to retrieve their infant, and Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, wasn't that a sight to behold. Him drenched from a good soaking, their daughter cradled in his arm, and the way he looked up at Stevie, like she hung the moon and stars, made her insides soften with love.

“I love you, you giant arse.”

“My fierce little Stevie. Words ain't gonna describe how much I love you.”

*

Rui and Rangi were the first to hear and the first to show up with several members of their village the next day. Gabe Jones brought the rest of the Howlies alone with several townsfolk. Mrs. Melinda Coulson and Pepper headed up a group of ladies who brought baskets filled with hot food while the men unloaded wood from their buckboards.

And Stevie? She wasn't used to community. People fended for themselves on the streets of Ireland, so watching their friends and acquaintances come together to tear down the remains of their barn and construct a new one out of nothing but the goodness of their hearts made her cry again. She was still blaming after-pregnancy hormones.

The day was hot and muggy, so the men stripped down to their undershirts and the ladies removed their jackets. Stevie helped set up tables so they could be dressed with gingham table clothes. Someone placed a vase filled with blue flowers in the center of the head table.

Children were underfoot, but no one woman had to keep an eye on them. Minding them, keeping them away from the construction, was also a community affair, which was how Shannon wound up being scooped from the ground by Senior Sergeant Carter. Peggy approached with the child on her hip just as Bucky and the men broke for lunch.

His arm slipped around Stevie's waist to pull her close for a quick kiss to her temple. The other hand occupied itself with stuffing a piece of meat in his mouth. “Peggy, always a pleasure to have you.”

“One must do one's part for the community,” she responded. “But my visit isn't just for pleasure as much as I enjoy seeing the little one.” Smiling, she bopped Shannon on the nose, who giggled. “We've had men stationed around your property as you asked, Lord Dunwood.”

“None of that,” he interrupted. “I'm Bucky, same as always.”

“Two of our constables followed a trio of ruffians from your property line back to Mr. Pierce's house. It won't prove to a court that he ordered them to set fire to your barn, but it's an interesting link I intend to follow up on. Should I manage to have one of the men roll on Mr. Pierce, well that gives us a witness willing to testify to Mr. Pierce's involvement.”

“Slippery snake,” Stevie spat.

“Were his standing in the community not quite so honorable, prosecuting him would be easier.”

“My husband is a marquess. Doesn't that buy him better standing?”

“I ain't using my father's title to win a court battle against a creep, Stevie-love. He already thinks I used it to get out of hanging for the death of my parents. Ain't giving him no more ammunition.”

“Well, we'll keep working on the case from our end. In the meantime, keep your family close. Especially this little one. Knowing Mr. Pierce, he wouldn't hesitate to use anything to his advantage.”

That put a thought in Stevie's head that made her sick to her stomach. While she wanted to snatch Shannon from Peggy and hide in the cellar, she forced herself to remain stoic, to gulp down heaving breaths that turned into wheezing, that made her gag, that made breathing so, so difficult and she was going to die, and she couldn't breathe, and she was going to pass out, and she was going to--

“Stevie! Sweetheart.”

A cold cloth bathed her face.

Shannon cried through a tunnel.

People surrounded her.

Air finally slipped quietly into her lungs, allowing her vision to clear. Bucky hovered on one side, Dr. Erskine the other. The doctor held a vial of smelling salts that he stoppered when she roused enough to sit up on her own.

“You had another attack of the lungs, Mrs. Barnes,” he said. “Is it the smoke, do you think?”

“No. I thought about something happening to Shannon.”

“Stress, then. You have to keep yourself as stress free as possible. It's imperative you keep your breathing as normal as possible, and you should start taking the breathing treatments I recommended.”

“We'll get you the herbs,” Rui interjected. “Soak them in steaming water and put a towel over your head to breathe in the steam. It will help.”

So for the rest of the day, Stevie found herself confined to a chair, Shannon either on her lap or on a blanket nearby. Rui's children were older than Shannon, but they happily played on the blanket with her along with Daisy, who was too young and too chubby to sit up proper yet.

Melinda brought her a bowl of ham and beans and bread at one point and sat to keep her company. They talked briefly about co-op business. Mr. Coulson had stepped up in Bucky's absence to keep members of the co-op enthusiastic and away from the schemes of Mr. Pierce. Turned out they had also had their chicken coop set fire to about a month ago, killing all their flock. Mr. Coulson had gotten off a shot at one of the vagabonds, but they couldn't identify them.

Then it came up.

“Mr. Pierce has been spreading rumors that you are indelicate.” 

“You mean that I ain't wholly a woman, and considering I just gave birth, that is certainly a lie.”

Melinda chuckled. “True. It's none of my business, really, but whatever you are, however you're put together, you're still a valuable member of our community, and we're so happy you came to live with Bucky. You were there and helped to protect us when Brock attacked. If you ever need anything, you just let us know.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Thank you for saying so, Melinda.”

Several other people approached her in the same manner. Pepper, especially. Even Jennifer Walters, who offered to purchase any special books she might want to become more educated on the subject of her condition. While having herself described as a “condition” irritated her, she appreciated the thought. Others were less open but said nothing. Only a handful, mainly church ladies, had anything uncomplimentary to say, and she got the feeling they were more irritated by Father Gregory's prosecution for breach of confessional confidence.

The community had the barn raised and the animals moved back in within the week, and in celebration the ladies of the Mackenzie District put together a spring festival where Stevie showcased the first of her honey mead. Ladies took part in canning and baking competitions. Menfolk got together for horse racing, sheep herding, and other feats of masculinity.

Only a few people batted an eye when Stevie took first place using Winter to herd geese into a pen. A few more looked on with disapproval over her attire: pants with a shirt tucked into the waistband, but she learned to ignore them. Funny how being the Marchioness of Dunwood came with a certain amount of social credit. She wondered how different their response would be were she Stevie Rogers, poor lass from Ireland.

Most people packed up around dusk to head to their homes. Stevie moved to pick up Shannon only to find her daughter in the arms of Alexander Pierce. Alarm made her heart jump. She deliberately didn't snatch Shannon away lest Mr. Pierce hurt her child in the process.

“Father Gregory must have misheard you confession. A shame to ruin a man's career over something misheard in a confessional, over a man following his conscience.”

“Give me my daughter.”

Alexander bounced Shannon on his hip, distracting her with the glint of his golden cufflink. “Such a precious child. I can only imagine the toll it took on your body to bring her into the world. By the way, I wished to extend my condolences for your barn. Terrible things have been happening around this community lately. Let's hope it ends with just the burning of your barn.

“It would be a tragedy if something happened to this lovely child.”

“Give me my daughter, now.” She reached for Shannon, but Alexander pulled away.

“Indulge a childless man. Mrs. Pierce never quickened, and after her disappearance, I have been too distraught to think of heirs and offspring. We're neighbors, Lady Dunwood. One would hate to think you had anything to do with encouraging my wife to shirk our Godly ordained marriage.”

“I don't make decisions for Mrs. Romanoff-Pierce. Please, give me my daughter.”

Alexander glanced over her shoulder. “Of course,” he responded before offering the child back.

She snatched Shannon and cradled her to her chest, turning slightly as though to shield the baby. The reason for his compliance? Bucky stormed in their direction. Upon his arrival, he tucked his arm around her to pull her close.

“How fucking dare you speak to my wife.”

“There's no need for ire, Lord Dunwood. We were simply having a chat about heirs and how delicate a child's grasp on life can be.”

“Is that a threat?” demanded Bucky. His shoulders broadened. His head lifted. He looked every bit a man used to hard work. The breadth and strength of his body made Stevie feel that little bit safer.

“Of course not.” Mr. Pierce tipped his hat and turned to walk away.

Bucky grasped her shoulders. “You okay, Stevie-lass? He didn't hurt you or Shannon?”

“No, we're fine. Startled, but fine.” The shakes making her vibrate said the obvious. “He picked up Shannon. Bucky, he held Shannon. He could have hurt her. He could have--”

Next thing she knew, Shannon was on Bucky's hip, and her hand was flattened over his steady heartbeat. He said, “You're having an attack, Stevie-love. I need you to follow my breathing.”

She tried.

“That's it. Just like that. Take a breath.”

She took a breath.

“Let it out.”

She exhaled, and each previous exhale became easier until her airway was clear. Groaning, she leaned her head against her husband's solid chest. “Can we go home?”

They went home. She didn't feel remotely safe until they were behind the locked door of their sturdy house, Shannon sleeping in her crib at the foot of their bed. Bucky pulled back the covers and slipped beneath after banking the fire to snuggle up beside her, their bodies touching from shoulder to hips. Her hand came to rest beneath the unbuttoned collar of his union suit where she could feel flesh and coarse chest hair and his heart beating. He meant safety.

*

Shannon started walking at thirteen months on an early spring day. They were outside, Stevie collecting the eggs from the geese and chickens and Bucky preparing for planting season, when their daughter stood up on the patchwork blanket she'd been playing on and took several steps toward Winter. The dog barked but made no commotion when she yanked on his fur while falling on her backside with a thump.

Stevie stared, mouth open. Laughter erupted from her. She set aside her basket and raced toward where the baby happily gurgled and pulled at Winter's fur.

“Did you see that?” she asked Bucky.

“She walked! Hi, my sweetheart. Come to Papa.” He held out his hands.

Happy sounds burbled from her as the baby stood, wobbled, caught her balance, and toddled to Bucky, who caught her up against his chest. Tears gathered in his eyes. He didn't bother wiping them away.

From there, it seemed like every milestone came that much sooner. Less than a month and Shannon was walking proficiently enough they had to keep a closer eye on her lest she wander off or get under foot. They found her in Stomper's stall once, something that nearly gave both parents heart failure.

And with the spring season, things with the co-op became busier. More shepherds signed on despite the increasing number of fires. Bucky had more meetings as shearing season approached and was out of the house on a more regular basis. 

So were Stevie and Shannon. They attended Suffragette meetings together and were the first to know about Pepper's pregnancy and how Daisy was finally cutting a tooth. They lost members: Mrs. Summers and a couple ladies Stevie had never really got on with. But they gained members, too. Rui became a regular attendant along with Mrs. Coulson and Senior Sergeant Carter, who admitted to them she was sweet on Mr. Jones.

They were in the middle of shearing season, Shannon safely contained inside a play pen to prevent her from wandering when all hands were needed, when the news arrived via Mr. Morita. The Maximoff twins, immigrants from a small principality in Russia, had their bar burned and their entire flock killed. Pietro had died trying to save the sheep.

Knowing Wanda Maximoff from her Suffrage meetings, she left Shannon with Bucky and road into town with soda bread, freshly churned butter, and mead. Wanda was in the jail house talking with Commissioner Phillips. Inside the jail cell was a man Stevie recognized from visiting Natasha at Mr. Pierce's house. They had never been formally introduced.

“Grant Ward,” Peggy murmured in her ear when she entered from another room. “The twins caught him setting fire to their barn. Wanda got off a shot before he could escape. Blew out his knee.”

A bandage wrapped around his knee was already soaked through with blood.

Eyes widening, she turned to look at Peggy. “Do you know what this means? We have a direct link to Alexander Pierce.”

“Not unless we get Mr. Ward to confess and testify in front of a judge that Mr. Pierce gave the order.”

“This isn't a fecking coincidence!” She cringed. “Sorry.”

“I understand it's frustrating.”

“Understand? Has your barn been burned down? Your livelihood nearly destroyed? Your family threatened? Have you been marched into an asylum in England and paraded around as an oddity?”

Peggy's expression remained stoic. “Poor choice of words, but the law exists for a reason, and we must follow it.”

“It's a stupid law. Stupid laws shouldn't be enacted in the first place.”

Peggy rubbed a hand against her back. The touch was grounding, and believe it or not, she genuinely liked Peggy, who was independent and didn't take guff from anyone over being a woman in a man's field. So she sighed into the touch.

Wanda was inconsolable.

The whole town came together to bury her brother in the church cemetery, his mass presided over by a new minister named Father Finian McAlister sent all the way from Scotland. After the service, they lowered his coffin into the ground. Rain pattered down on the collection of oilskins and umbrellas as a community mourned the loss of one of its own.


	14. It Will Not Be Long, Love, 'Til Our Wedding Day

Christchurch bustled with activity, its streets clogged with wagons from outer districts coming to sell their wool at city markets. Much like her first time there, the men insisted she had no place haggling prices or loitering in the warehouse, not with a baby on her hip. Because either she was a woman, or she had a baby, or she'd grown an extra head. Any excuse to keep her away from Man's business.

Bucky had appeared sheepish. There was one man who knew he was going to get an earful when he joined her at their hotel room later that evening. 

She passed a news boy on the way and bought a paper. Trying to get news all the way in the Mackenzie District was like pulling the teeth of an angry bear, so she hadn't heard about the goings on in Wellington. Kate Sheppard, Ms. Potts, and several other prominent women were presenting petitions bearing the signatures of tens of thousands of residents calling for the woman's right to vote in parliamentary elections.

Stopping on the street corner, she opened the paper to the front page. The headline read “Lord Glasglow Signs Electoral Act Into Law.” The urge to squeal was strong, one barely restrained by Shannon tugging none-too-gently on a lock of her hair.

“Fecking shite, lass. You after pulling me bald?”

“No.”

“Don't sass me.”

“No.”

Stevie grinned and pressed a kiss to her daughter's temple. Blond curls framed her chubby face. Such a precious thing, one Stevie didn't think she would be able to repeat. Dr. Erskine was inclined to agree. So if she could only give birth once in her life, at least it was to a strong, healthy little girl, who would be able to vote when she came of age to have her thoughts heard by Parliament.

“Did you hear the news?” Rui asked.

“Just read it.” She waved the paper to emphasize her statement. She glanced both ways before darting through traffic to cross the street and reach Rui's side. They embraced.

“Not that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Peggy posted a letter from home. Mr. Ward finally agreed to testify against Mr. Pierce.”

Stevie's heart leaped into her throat. “How did she manage that?”

Both women moved farther away from the street corner and into the shadow of a building to get out of the way of traffic. Stevie put out a protective hand over Rui's swollen belly.

“Peggy ain't someone to be trifled with, and Mr. Pierce ain't been arrested yet. Word has it soon as he heard Ward gave him up, he packed bags and left his estate. Nobody knows where he is.”

“Up to no good, that's where he is, the shite.”

Looping her free arm with Rui's, she guided them back into the flow of traffic to head to their hotel. Apparently markets weren't the domain of women either. Or Rangi was equally as afraid for his wife's safety in the crush of people. He'd turned into the Neanderthal Stevie had seen in a museum back in London during her pregnancy: overprotective and primitive.

Whistles shrieked. Bobbies pushed their way opposite the flow of people. Stevie pulled Shannon close and darted into the shadow of a building to avoid being trampled. Heaviness settled over her shoulders, a premonition of sorts, one her mother would suggest meant she looked through the veil.

Officially worried, she grabbed the arm of a passing officer and asked about the commotion.

“There was a shooting down at Robin's warehouse.”

The bubble of alarm burst into full blown panic. Since Rui was heavy with child and Stevie wasn't after bringing Shannon into a situation where an armed shooter could still be at large or where her father might be-- She passed Shannon to Rui. “Take her to the hotel. I'll come as soon as I know more. Please?”

“Go.”

She rabbited, her slim building a blessing that allowed her to twist and turn through the foot traffice like a fish swimming against the current. Everything became a blur of stone buildings and humanity until she saw the facade of the ware house where Bucky favored doing business. Mitch Robins stood outside talking to an officer, but that wasn't her concern.

Her concern perched on the edge of their wagon, parked just inside the building's main floor, with a wad of cloth pressed against his shoulder and a face pale. “Bucky!”

“Stevie-lass, you shouldn't be here.”

“Fecking Hell, I shouldn't.”

She eased the cloth away to see the damage. It was a through and through. The bullet had entered the front of his shoulder and exited through his armpit, the injury dangerously close to his heart.

“You need a hospital.” She put an arm around his waist to help him to his feet, but the warehouse doors swung closed. People inside murmured in confusion, but confusion turned to outright chaos when a bark of gunfire cracked the commotion.

They were trapped. It was dark. No one could see where the shooter was.

Bucky pushed Steve down and beneath the wagon.

She didn't want to stay beneath the wagon, for feck's sake and climbed back out as soon as he left to try to track down the shooter. Another gunshot. More screams from those inside. Finally, someone managed to open an upper window to allow sunshine to stream inside. Bucky stood directly in front of Alexander, his hands around Alexander's throat, Alexander's gun against his forehead.

“Don't!” she pleaded, horrified and frozen.

Another gunshot.

Stevie winced and squeezed her eyes closed, but she couldn't allow fear to keep her from knowing the truth. Opening her eyes wouldn't prolong the inevitable. If Bucky were dead, she owed it to him to see him die while standing up against a bully of a man.

Alexander Pierce's eyes widened. He sank to his knees, a red stain spreading across his shirt front.

Her frantic gaze scanned their surroundings until Stevie saw the second shooter. Natasha Romanoff stood at the back of the warehouse, ever elegant in the height of Victorian fashion and holding a derringer. She replaced the weapon in her purse, picked up the hem of her skirt, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” called Stevie. Natasha didn't wait, and Stevie wasn't willing to leave her husband to chase down a ghost. Rather, she ran toward Bucky and wrapped him in her arms. His went around her waist to press her close.

“I'm all right, lass. We're all right.”

“All right? Jesus, Mary, 'n, Joseph. My heart can't take much more of this.”

*

Shannon cooed and crawled across the hospital bed to reach her father's lap, at which point, he pulled her up under his good arm and allowed her to play with the ring he now kept on a chain around his neck. It was his family crest, one she would inherit upon their deaths. One day, Stevie's daughter would become Marchioness of Dunwood.

“I couldn't find her,” Stevie mentioned. She stood at the window, looking out on the busy street, a gloved hand holding the lacy curtains open. “By the time I got to Dr. Barton's lodgings, they were gone. Him and his traveling museum of oddities.” She spat the latter with venom.

“Least it gives them a living.”

Whirling, she looked at him agog, mouth slightly open and something sharp on her tongue.

“Don't go flaying me with your tongue, Stevie-love. Think about it. Who's gonna hire someone with obvious deformities? How they gonna earn a living? They're just trying to make ends meet, same as everyone, and Dr. Barton gives them a safe environment, pays them, protects them, lets them keep their wages, and apparently cares about her. She looked well.”

“Don't be after using logic on me when I'm upset.”

The smile he offered was soft and served to coax her away from the window where she perched on the edge of his bed. “Doc says you'll be able to travel tomorrow. Should I have the wagon loaded? Or do you want to linger in Christchurch?”

“Linger? Here? When we could be at home?”

A knock interrupted their conversation. Senior Sergeant Carter entered after Stevie opened the door for her. Peggy looked smart in her dress uniform, and the frown—Stevie rather wanted to smooth the ridges between Peggy's furrowed eyebrows like a sculptor might—eased upon seeing them.

“Judge Hill accepted formal charges against Mr. Pierce, not that he'll ever see a day in court. My colleagues will return his remains to his estate. As I understand it, he doesn't have family to make his arrangements, so we'll lay him to rest in his family's mausoleum.”

“It's over, then. As long as it's over and we can retire in peace without worrying about his shadow falling over us for the rest of our lives.”

Bucky placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “There's nothing left to fear.”

Her shoulders straightened. “At least the courts acknowledged his responsibility in your being shot. All the rest? I can get over that. I can swallow those horrors, but he hurt you. That's something I won't stand for.”

“Course you won't, Stevie-lass,” he says with a smirk.

“Stop looking so smug, or I'll be after smacking that grin clean off your face, love.”

Peggy, ignoring their affection, swept Shannon from Bucky's good side to settle the toddler on her hip. “This little girl and I should give her parents some time alone. By the way, you're free to leave Christchurch whenever you feel able.”

“You'll have her back to the hotel by dark?”

“No. You'll never see her again. I'll make off with her to some far flung corner of the empire where her Irish temper and English stuffiness will drive me beyond the point of reason. We're just going to the confectioner's on the corner. She needs lunch, and I have an eye toward something sweet.”

“You mean something named Angie Martinelli,” Bucky said under his breath, earning himself a playful glare from their unexpected friend and babysitter.

After Peggy left, Stevie stretched out in bed bedside her husband where she rested her head against his uninjured shoulder. She sang one of the many songs her ma had taught her as a child, voice melodic and quiet beneath the hum of activity muffled by the walls of his room.

“When dew falls on meadows and moths fill the night, when glow of the greesagh on hearth throws half-light, I'll slip from the casement, and we'll run away. And it will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day.”

“Let's get married,” Bucky commented.

Laughing, she turned to press a kiss to stubble on his jaw. “I knew you were drunk at our wedding, but I thought you at least remembered.”

“No, I mean, let's get married in a ceremony I can remember as more than just a blur, one where we both don't have one foot already out the door. Do you understand? I want that commitment for us because I ain't never leaving you, Stevie-love.”

Warmth flooded her chest. “I'd like that.”

They left Christchurch the following morning bound for home. For once, it was an easy trip, one spent in peace and without the fear of Alexander hanging over their heads, and when they returned, Bucky finished the addition to their house. Shannon officially moved from their bedroom to her own room in late fall. By the following spring, Stevie defied all odds by becoming pregnant again. Dr. Erskine didn't bother marveling over the miracle, saying she was a miracle in and of herself.

On a late spring afternoon, they were re-married by Father McAlister in front of their friends. Peggy cradled a squirming Shannon. Rangi wore a wicker basket on his back where his latest son slept soundly. Rui stood up beside her as her witness when Stevie enter the church wearing a simple linen dress to be presented to her husband, who wore his Sunday best this go around.

After, the celebration spilled into the streets of McKenzie proper. They'd just cut the cake when she glanced up to see Natasha standing toward the back of the crowd. Gasping, Stevie touched Bucky's elbow to direct his glance and didn't await permission before darting away.

“Don't run,” she said. Just to be sure, she grasped Nat's forearms. “Please, don't run. Just give me a moment to catch my breath.” She'd had a difficult winter, and her lungs were only just strengthening from a bad bout of pneumonia.

“You look well,” Nat began.

“You're here. Why did you run after Pierce? You saved my husband, and you ran.”

“Don't give me more credit than I deserve; I didn't save your husband. I saved myself. Pierce had been tracking us for almost a year. Did you think he would just let me go?” Nat's laughter was bitter.

“But it's safe now.”

“Safe?” Nat looked doubtful. “For people like us?”

“You've been gone a long time. Things have happened--”

Whatever she would have said was interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Barton with two glasses of punch. One, he handed to Natasha. Once his hand was free, he offered it to Stevie.

“Allow me to introduce my new husband, Dr. Clint Barton.”

Returning Dr. Barton's gesture came with some hesitance. She accepted his hand for a quick shake, slipping it free just before he could kiss her knuckles. As far as she was concerned, he was still someone who profited from society ostracizing them.

“Please, don't let us interrupt your happy occasion. We'll be taking over my late husband's estate. You must come for tea some time.”

Nat seemed distant, the same way she'd been when they'd first met and the animosity between them had been strong, but the smirk on Nat's features was subtle, the corners of her eyes crinkled slightly. There was a friendship there that could be salvaged, two people with similar life experiences who could take comfort in one another.

“Some time.”

She watched them go before returning to Bucky's side.

“Everything all right?”

“Perfect,” she responded before kissing him. “Everything is perfect.”


End file.
